Sympathy for the Devil
by direwolfdemigod
Summary: "So let me get this straight. You're an immortal creature that takes over people's bodies and your most recent host is my detective partner." "Yeah, that's pretty much it." It wakes up in The Corridor, chooses a life, lives the life, dies, and ends up back in The Corridor. Again and again and again. Then, It wakes up in Scorpius Malfoy's body and faces a challenge. On hiatus.
1. The Beginning of the End

**This is my first attempt at a multi-chapter and a Scorose fic in a while, so hopefully it works out well. There's also the fact that the idea is rather unconventional for a romance story. My ability to turn really interesting concepts into mindless romance will never cease to amaze me.**

 **I updated the first chapter after I posted it because there was a typo where it said 'Scorpius Brown' instead of 'Scorpius Malfoy'. I get people who don't know I write fanfiction to edit my stories so I change the names and I forgot to change that one back.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of the characters in this story you may recognize. The title is taken from the song by The Rolling Stones.**

* * *

 **Chapter One: The Beginning of the End**

" _I've been around for a long, long year_

 _Stole many a man's soul and faith"_

 _\- The Rolling Stones_

* * *

It's back in the room. Again.

White walls tower on both sides, extend up, up, up with no visible end. Its line of sight follows them until It hits the space between. A non-existent ceiling. Yet there's no sign of a sky anywhere above.

It takes the obligatory look right, then left. A narrow infinity filled with delphic doors. Different colours, different carvings, different configurations. Stretching to unreachable heights. It doesn't recognize this strip, so they must have dropped It somewhere new.

 _Home sweet home._

It went right last time, so It goes left. It's surprised when It feels the sudden overwhelming urge to actually explore the doors. Falling prey to the irrationality of believing in choice is always painful. After all, the true choice never lies behind the doors. It exists in the gaps between observation and ignorance; the consequences of which are identical.

It drifts through, paying no attention to the passage of time until the third bell goes off. Deep ( _~ten minutes left~_ ). A door flashes, catches Its eye. Yellow metal shining and shimmering despite an absence of anything that could be called light. Instead of a doorknob, a circular crank inhabits the middle, merely ornamental. It's pretty sure they like the irony of the fact that It doesn't have any hands (or other body parts) that could actually open the door.

Instead, It wills the door to open with Its pure and unadulterated yearning. The signal for its release. It's a wonder that this trick still works considering that It stopped actually wanting things a long time ago.

The door swings open slowly, silently, trying to draw out the suspense as to what's behind it. It would roll Its eyes if it had any. Performing the same ritual for all time basically eliminates any element of surprise this process once possessed.

 _They're so dramatic._

The story this door sells is beautiful, in that desperate, tragic way that It knows too well. A little girl huddles over a piece of fabric in a dark room, her back hunched, her skin the colour of copper. Lithe fingers work deftly on the task at hand. One child working tirelessly for the superficial joy of another. Because everything must be paid for in the equivalent to what it provides.

The name comes as It watches her: Aayana. Beautiful and tragic, just like her. Just like this story.

But Its desire fades with the thought and the door slams shut. It could save her. Lift her out of a life of poverty, pain and lost potential. But she would be long gone by the time It arrived.

More importantly, _It_ no longer has any interest in leading that life. A life destined to fail. A life over before it has begun. Experience, adventure and suffering are the food of the young, not the old. The desire to feel died long ago.

It drifts past, moves on.

At the fourth bell ( _~one minute left~_ ), It resigns Itself. Getting sucked into a random life contains minimal sacrifice anyway.

 _(~left~) (~look left~)_

Its attention is drawn, like a magnet to its mate. The door consumes It. Rectangular, smooth, simple. A thick red; the colour of blood. The door calls, asks It to pursue it, spins the web of a siren. The intrigue is almost tangible in its intensity. A that fog invites It in, sedates It into a lull. Convinces It that the mystery behind it could be a home.

But that's impossible. It has no _real_ home, nothing to call Its own. It _can't_.

 _(~it could be home~)_

Then the door grows larger, becomes daunting, frightening. Threatens It and everything It's ever known. There's something monstrous about it. The door represents a choice _they_ want It to make.

 _Run._

 _(~stay~)_

It rips away, the edges of vision becoming blurry as reality shifts. It wills Itself to see something else, _anything else_ , before time runs out. Another door comes into view, dull grey, pushing It away. It plows on, watches the door crack open as a result of Its efforts. It tries to wrap Its mind around it, the world on the other side. But it stops at the crack, mocking It as the final toll signals the end of choice. Then: a blood curdling laugh, the deep gong going off again and again and again, a whistling wind. It's sucked back, sucked into a nightmare. Sucked into the red door.

It can't scream, but if It could…

* * *

 _again and again and again_

It wakes up in _The Corridor_. Every time.

It chooses or gets sucked into a door. Every time.

It inhabits a host that no one knows. Every time.

It dies when the host dies and is forgotten. Every time.

 _again and again and again_

* * *

The new body flies up to a sitting position, panting hard, heart racing, eyes wide open. Once the body's breathing steadies, It takes a moment to bask in the feeling of acquiring a heart beat. A euphoria so great it rivals all other pleasures. One that most humans cannot remember because they only encounter it as infants.

The body is sweating, in shock from the transition, a current of fear running through it as the previous owner is ejected. Rarely, they linger like this, eliciting this kind of reaction. Sometimes, It wonders if their last dream before their body is stolen is about _The Corridor_. It's a good thing they don't stick around to deal with the psychological trauma that would come from _that_ kind of an experience.

 _Death is often a mercy._

Everything is calm for all of two seconds, and then a chill runs up the spine and the red door reappears. The laughter comes, the bell, the whistling. This time It does scream, or at least the body does, as loud as it can to release the pure terror that grips its heart. Because the body is _in_ _The Corridor_. It's vulnerable to _them_. This has never happened before. Something is wrong.

 _(~this is the end~)_

It forces the eyes to blink, to get rid of the reflex tears. When they open again, It's back in the new body's room, darkness engulfing It and providing sanctuary. The body is panting, but this time, It causes the reaction, not the previous owner. Something is _very, very_ wrong. It doesn't even know the new body's name. It doesn't come like it usually does.

It looks down in a haze, notices a flat and broad chest. It looks for what's longer than probably necessary, wondering what's so special about this host, this _man_. Finally, It decides to go through Its regular routine. There's already enough abnormality to this whole situation, It may as well inject some semblance of order into it.

First, It focuses on the fingers, flexing them, moving them, weaving them around each other. A tingling sensation spreads through them and travels up the arm. A sign that the body is being reminded that it's still alive. The newness is always strange, like a memory missing its most important piece. Familiar, but forgotten in its true form, its fullness.

It moves on to the other appendages, the toes then the arms then the legs. Tests out the twist of the torso, the roll of the neck. It melts through the whole body, connects it, welds it together, almost forces a gasp from the mouth. It brings the arms up to the shoulders, trying out the touch. It feels smooth skin, broad shoulders, and sharp collar bones. The fingertips brush down the body like a lover's kiss, light and feathery, just enough to awaken the nervous system.

As soon as every part of the body is awoken, It feels it. Skin on skin. Someone _else's_ skin. An arm casually draped over the stomach, disguised, masked by deceitful sheets. Someone is with It when It wakes up. The terror that was barely kept at bay by the illusion of routine begins to bubble up again, rise, escape. Every muscle in the new body tenses and It forces Itself ( _oh so, slowly, slowly_ ) to turn the head to the left.

 _What have they done?_

 _(~this is the end~)_

There's a sharp intake of breath when the silhouette comes into view and It quickly realizes that it came from the mouth of the new body. It can't properly see them. They are only a shadow. A question mark. An ambiguous figure capable of anything.

This is a problem that It quickly determines It needs to solve. Nothing like this has ever happened before. What is It supposed to do?

 _Leave._

 _(~won't work~)_

It can't see much around It, it's too dark, but It feels the walls of the room closing in. The air around It seems to grow thicker, choking It as It tries to escape, get up, do _anything_. But It's frozen in place, muscles of the new body taut and struggling against the force of Its mind that tells It that leaving _won't work_.

The room is deathly silent, but the sound reminds It of screaming.

The release comes slowly, first in the soles of the feet and then it spreads, up, up, up, until it hits the head. It knows that It can scream now, or force the mouth to scream. But It no longer wants to. The feeling is gone, swept away with the entrapment.

It gets the mouth to take a deep breath and instead of leaving, It does the only thing that It can think of that doesn't involve going back to sleep next to a stranger. It slips out of bed and looks for a bathroom. Fortunately, It spots a large white door next to the cupboard at the front of the room. It's one of two and closer to It so It heads towards it first. The It hears a creak, the shifting of another body.

"Scorpius?" A light, female voice. She speaks with an American accent. It freezes.

It turns around at a snail's pace, as if to avoid frightening a wild animal. The silhouette has propped herself up on her elbows and is staring at It, waiting for a response. She doesn't get one.

After a moment of stretched out silence, the figure clears her throat and asks, "Are you okay?"

It finally finds the voice, although it comes out cracked and rough, "Bathroom."

Another silence, heavy and skeptical. Then (to Its tremendous surprise and relief) the woman falls back onto her pillow and mumbles, "Okay," before rolling over and falling asleep.

It releases a breath It hadn't known It had been holding. It takes a peek into the first door and, sure enough, It spots a shower. Once inside, It gropes for a light switch on the nearest wall, finally fumbling over it and turning it on.

A strong, fluorescent light bathes the room in harsh, yellow tones. It closes the eyes and allows them to adjust to the light, crouching down to press the palms against the cool, tile floor. Taking a moment to just _feel_.

It slides open the eyes again, letting them meet the uniformity of the square ceramic in front of them.

Standing, It examines the room and is less than impressed by what It finds. It's small and dingy, but clean and well-kept. A little like a bathroom in a motel. Expectations of beauty are suspended, but not those of cleanliness.

By now It's just looking everywhere but the mirror It knows hangs above the cracked sink. But It doesn't want to turn around and face Itself. Take a good look at the new body in its entirety. That's the moment when reality sinks in, fixes itself to a particular moment, place, human. And for some reason (perhaps because of the very real person on the other side of a thin wall that _knows_ It), that seems like a lot to take at the moment. So instead, It feels the face to prepare Itself.

The hands move up to cradle the cheek and then slowly move over it. The skin is smooth, the jaw strong and ovular with high cheekbones. When It runs the hand through the hair, it's short and straight, goes down to the ears and sticks up around the head. A mental picture begins to form in Its mind. Imagining what the host looks like almost always leads to a pleasant image that reality often doesn't live up to.

It's done going over the lines and curves of the face much too fast and It feels the acceleration of the heart beat without Its permission. Which means the association has already begun. It tries not to panic, turns around quickly and stares down the face It feared moments earlier to keep Its mind off the association.

The first thing that pops out about the new body is how white it is. Not just regular white. _White_ white. It doesn't look unhealthy, but it's pretty close. The skin is like porcelain, flawless, not a blemish or birthmark in sight. There's a worn cotton t-shirt stretched across the frame of the upper body and plaid pajama bottoms with a few holes hanging low on the hips and exposing a bit of underwear. The arm muscles are defined and clear, veins like branches running down to the hands which are large, the fingers long and graceful. It can't tell much with the body's clothes on, but It hesitates to take them off. The first time always feels like a violation.

It chooses to move onto the facial features instead. The lips are light and on the thinner side, curled up in what seems to be a natural smirk. A sharp, straight nose with a thin bridge that comes to a point. It smoothly leads up to dark, arched eyebrows that make the eyes pop. The eyes themselves are grey, cold and disinterested. They seem calculating and stand out despite the banality of their colour.

But the most striking feature by far is the hair. From touch, it seemed pretty standard. Soft and thick, short and a little wild. But it wouldn't be special without the colour. A light blonde, nearly white, falling in every direction, but not messy.

The itch to associate grows stronger with every second that It examines the body. Realizes that the body belongs to It now. But it doesn't. Not really. The body is someone else's. They're gone, but their presence lingers like that of a ghost.

Usually it doesn't matter whether the previous owner feels present or not. The association is not a thing of choice and It's never had a reason to fight against it before. In fact, the association usually feels good. Right. But this time It doesn't want to.

For the first time ever, It feels the risk in associating. Becoming someone else. This host still has friends, family, probably a job and obligations. It doesn't want to get tied down to that. Doesn't want to have to pay attention to others. The consequences could be catastrophic. God forbid that someone holds these things against It, uses It, manipulates It. Or worse. It may start to _feel_ things. Things that Scorpius felt.

No, It can't risk it. It'll just resist the association. It's never done that before, but there's a first time for everything.

 _(~won't work~)_

The bathroom feels much larger all of a sudden and an awkward tension coats the room, like It's alienated some ancient deities that are offended by Its refusal to comply with their stupid rules.

It ignores the feeling and decides to take off the clothes. It's going to have to take them off sooner than later. It can't just avoid showering and changing for the rest of this life. It does it quickly, stripping off every piece with a total lack of pizzazz. When all the clothes are off, It just stares, letting the new body sink in.

The craving to associate intensifies yet again and It can feel it building, like water behind a bursting dam. But It pushes it down, rotating to look at the backside. It stretches the arms up in the air, up, up, up, imagining the endless walls of _The Corridor_. The bones crack, twisting and turning to fulfill Its whims.

Turning back to the front, less bashful this time, It shamelessly drinks up the image of the body, takes in the pale skin, the strong muscles, the youth that it exerts in waves.

It looks back up to the face when It's done and a strong pang of pain hits it, burns behind the eyes and in _Its_ mind, not the brain. The association pulls again, writhing, trying to get out of Its grasp, but It tightens Its hold, pulls back just in time. All is quiet. And then there's a buzzing sound, smothering It, forcing It down. It grits the teeth.

"I am _not_ Scorpius," It grinds out, staring down the eyes in the mirror, the voice deep and smooth, sophisticated. The buzzing intensifies and the hands fly to the counter, grip it, the knuckles turning white.

"This is _not_ my body," It tries again, saying it like a prayer and a sin. The pain comes back, dull and throbbing, the buzzing cheering it on like a great crowd.

" _I am not Scorpius_ ," It chants, voice growing in volume, but too focused to pay such an insignificant detail any mind. The fluorescent lights brighten and the buzzing passes into reality, fills the room, bouncing off the walls, hitting, beating, crushing It. Bones crack, tendons snap, muscles tear. It screams, placing the hands over the ears, the eyes slamming shut.

" _I am not him!_ "

 _(~this is the end~)_

The buzzing shatters as does the light bulb above It. Shards of glass rain down, covering the bathroom in physical evidence of Its lost control.

It stands there in the dark, naked, raw, vulnerable. The thin film that covered Its senses in the first few moments of life in the new body disappears. All It feels is dread. It needs to get out.

 _(~won't work~)_

The curiosity that blooms in Its chest is unexpected. But It feels that for the first time in a long time, It has something to be curious about. So curious, that for a second It forgets the fear. Why is It here? What makes this host so special? Who's controlling Its lives? For the first time in a long time, It wants answers. But not today. Today, It needs to focus on fighting the association. Today, It needs to observe, test the waters, see what happens. No, It'll wait for tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

It slips back into the clothes pooled on the ground, splashes water on the face, and takes one last good look at the new body in the mirror. Without further ado, It opens the door and steps back into the bedroom, back into the real world.

It climbs into the bed, mindful of the foreign body on the other side, and takes care to lie down as far away from it as possible. Turning the back to the anomaly, It feels the steady, aching fear. It is uncertain. And that makes It afraid.

 _(~this is the end~)_

* * *

Darkness fills Its senses. Becomes all It can see, hear, smell, feel, taste. Infinity, a forever horror with no grotesque imagery. Emptiness is what intimidates, expectation is what terrifies.

The darkness is oppressive in its totality, its insistence that it is the only thing that truly exists. The only thing that should be acknowledged as real. Maybe It's floating or swimming or walking or running through inky nothingness, but It can't tell. Everything is the same. The discovery is strange even though it should be obvious: relativity. Oil is only thick compared to water. Light only exists in contrast to dark.

But darkness lives on regardless, pinned to nothing but itself.

A point appears, light in an everlasting plane. Maybe in the center, maybe to the left, maybe to the right. There's no direction here, no concrete field of vision.

As the light shines, infinity become smaller, until It senses a wall, two walls, slowly closing in. Panting fills the room, adding dimension, differentiation to the senses. The sound isn't coming from It. From something else: a human, It thinks. The light shines on at a single point to Its left. It reveals nothing.

The light begins to crawl, languidly, like it has all the time in the world.

It wants to see where the panting is coming from, not just hear it. In this case, to see is to know. It can sense that the thing making the noise is a resolution, an answer to all Its questions.

The light continues to crawl.

Yearning too strong, It reels back, tries to gain control over the space around It, over the new body. But the desire grows stronger and stronger, overpowering.

The light continues to crawl.

The walls begin to shift, squeeze further, the air turning to ice. It struggles to breathe, the bitter cold assaulting the lungs and pricking the skin.

The light continues to crawl

… until it hits the edge of… something… something _red_. A low humming strikes in the background, soft and then growing, _growing_ until it blows out to a full on buzz, intensifying and sending It wild, the sound painful to Its very core.

The light continues to crawl.

The curiosity vanishes. It doesn't want it. Not anymore. Not ever. It wants to gauge out the eyes, rip off the ears, break the nose, cut off the tongue, burn the skin, mash in the brain until It can't _see, hear, smell, taste, feel, think_ anything.

The light continues to crawl.

* * *

It wakes up again, in the same room, in a cold sweat. Some 70's or 80's pop song plays in the background, but the noise is drowned out by the dream. Or the memory of it. The ceiling is white and the light filtering in paralyzes It. The light fresh in Its mind eyes, crawling, crawling towards the end. Crawling towards it. It doesn't want to see.

 _(~has to~)_

A hand grips It, pulls the new body and It flinches, pushes away, the head whipping around to meet the attack head on.

But instead of red, the light, _the end_ , It sees a woman, her eyebrows furrowed in concern. It takes her in, her pale skin, brown eyes and dirty blonde hair. The shape of her face, the curve of her cheekbones, the swoop of her eyebrows. It all seems too delicate. Too delicate to grace the features of the only person that's ever _known_ It when It wakes up.

"Morning," she whispers, scanning the face, distracted. "Is something wrong?"

The soothing quality of her voice calms It down a little, bringing It back into the room instead of the dark. It manages to give her a small nod.

Her face doesn't change though and she puts a hand to the forehead. It flinches when skin touches skin and her concern goes deeper, manifests itself more obviously across her features.

"You don't have a fever, but you seem really freaked out," she pauses like she's waiting for It to explain. When It doesn't say anything, she pushes, "Did you have a bad dream?"

It knows It has to speak soon, can't convince people It's Scorpius if It never says anything. But as long as she's going to ask yes or no questions, It's going to take advantage. It shakes Its head.

Her worry is clear as she continues to scan the face, deep in thought. The expression melts abruptly, replaced by a blank face, something It can't read. It's unnerving.

"You're having second thoughts," her voice is small, but in an oddly strong way. It's a statement, not a question, like she's steeling herself for the inevitable. It doesn't like the way she says it. Not at all. Unfortunately, It has no idea what she's talking about so It doesn't know how to respond appropriately.

She takes in the confusion on the face and sighs heavily, pulls up the hand that's been resting between them, her left, "You haven't forgotten yesterday already, have you?"

It registers that her voice sounds a little insecure despite the fact that she's good at hiding it. That thought quickly flies out the window when It sees it. An elegant band on her left ring finger. An _engagement_ ring. Scorpius is _engaged_.

It scrambles for a response, something that sounds believable enough that It won't expose Its unbelievable identity on day one of being Scorpius.

Finally, It smooths over the face and tries to give her a comforting look, brings a hand up to her jaw to cup it lightly. Her eyes close when the skin touches her cheek.

To really sell it, It leans in and kisses her forehead, "Of course not. To both. I didn't forget and I'm _definitely_ not having second thoughts."

Nevermind the fact that It's definitely having many, _many_ second thoughts. But she doesn't have to know that.

Her face brightens and she leans over to plant a kiss on the lips. The kiss burns, the feeling foreign to the circumstance. When she pulls away, It makes sure to compose the face and smile back at her.

They stay silent for a moment, just looking at each other. It drinks in her appearance, fascinated by this woman because of the change she represents. That's when It hits It. It can make her forget.

Cautiously, It moves the hand that was previously resting on her face down to her wrist. Once It feels the connection establish, It tries to recall all the memories she has of them. Pull them to the surface so It can catalogue them and make them all vanish.

Usually, a tingling sensation spreads from the chest out to every crevice of the body, then flows into the other person's body through the point of contact. It glows, not so bright that the human can see, but bright enough for It to bask in the amazing power of memory. And then slowly crush it, one moment at a time.

None of that happens this time. Instead, the silence extends, stretches out into the room, mocking It as It tries to coax the memories out so It can provoke them to implode. The woman seems oblivious to Its failing efforts, sharing a very one sided moment with It in the peacefulness of the morning.

Thankfully, It's saved from any further conversation by the opening notes of the alarm song, the snooze turning off to bring them back to the present.

The woman startles out of her moment and flips to the other side to press a button on her phone. She gives It another swift kiss on the lips before swinging her feet over the bed and standing up, stretching her arms to the ceiling and yawning.

"You mind if I take the first shower?"

The shards of glass flash before Its eyes, "Can I?"

She shrugs, "Yeah sure, I'll go make breakfast. I have the afternoon shift anyway."

"Great," It says, hoping to end the conversation and get out of the room faster.

Instead, she gives It another wondrous look, then bends down to press one last lingering kiss on the lips, her fingers wrapping themselves around the arm. It's soft and slow, tender and innocent. Despite Itself, the kiss travels through the body leaving a pleasant warmth. She pulls back, but just enough so she can rest her forehead again the body's forehead.

"I love you."

It swallows and looks into her eyes, "I love you too."

It sounds like a lie, but apparently she buys it because she gives It a brilliant smile and walks out of the door on the left of the cupboard, shooting one last wink over her shoulder.

When the room is empty, It moves, planting the feet solidly on the ground next to the bed. Next, It lifts up the entire body, walks slowly towards the bathroom. It stares at the door knob and gets a strange sense of deja vu. A flashback to all the doors that It can't open. Now that It can, It doesn't want to.

The buzzing sound grows in Its mind, a trick, a delusion, but disconcerting nonetheless. It imagines that the glass must still be on the ground, shattered and bathed in an unnatural darkness as a result. No longer able to perform its function.

 _(~don't be afraid~)_

The fear grows sharper, more acute, pointed towards the implications of what happened. It doesn't want to deal with them. It said tomorrow, but now that tomorrow has come, It wants yesterday back.

 _(~don't be afraid~)_

The arm stretches out slowly, almost of its own volition, ready to grip, to turn, to open. It panics internally, but there's no sign in the body. For once, the body is steady and calm as it continues to lean forward. The hand hits the knob, turns it.

 _(~don't be afraid~)_

A push, the door swings open. And… nothing. The lights are back on, too yellow and too fluorescent and too strong. No shattered glass lies on the floor, only the same, neat, boring ceramic tiles as before. The room is silent.

It takes a step forward, careful to feel the floor before allowing the foot to fall completely. It's not expecting invisible glass, but It's seen weirder.

 _(~no need to be afraid~)_

It respectfully disagrees. The absence of anything is much more unnerving than the presence of something. It means that there's something to come.

Searching the bathroom twice and coming up empty-handed both times, It gives in and decides to take a shower.

The badly pressurized water cleans the skin, goes deep, soaks the bones and relaxes the muscles. It helps, the feeling of getting clean of the previous owner always inviting.

But after a while the lingering desire comes back, hot water coaxing It to associate, reminding It of how nice it is to feel good in Its own (or someone else's) skin. So It stretches out the hand and cranks the knob to cold, ice water pouring down on It in an instant, the need melting away.

After the shower, It gets dressed and finds Itself staring at the reflection of the body again, trying to decide what to do. It needs to shake Scorpius's previous life, but until It can figure out how to do that, It'll follow his routine.

So It brushes the teeth, shaves, puts on deodorant and styles the hair. Some hair gel sits in the cabinet above the toilet, but It decides to skip it. It sincerely hopes that Scorpius wasn't making that choice before It came along, but if he was, it stops today.

Thirty minutes after It goes into the bathroom, It comes out

It heads for the closet immediately, sliding aside a paneled door and rifling through the clothes on the hangers. Most of the things It finds are business casual: collared shirts and dress pants good for semi-professional work. The rest of it is casual clothing that is a little lacking in the style department. If It was planning on staying, It would definitely have to rework the wardrobe.

It grabs one decent looking powder blue shirt and a pair of grey dress pants along with a black belt, slipping them on and giving the body a quick scan. It looks pretty good, but more importantly, ambiguous.

Grabbing the host's phone from off the nightstand It woke up next to, It heads towards the only other door in the room, the one It assumes leads out to the rest of the house.

This time, It doesn't bother stopping in front of the door. It's sick of playing out the cycle, the routine where It wonders what's on the other side and then finds out seconds later. The whole thing is a practice in futility. But then again, Its whole life is a practice in futility.

Even though It still feels the fear creeping through It, the hand pushes the door open, leading It into a life It's not sure It will come back from. It's definitely going to regret this.

The apartment, much like the bathroom, is quaint and dingy, but clearly cared for. Worthy of a motel. There's paintings and photos, strategically placed decorative pillows, bookshelves filled to the brim on either side of an old tv.

It walks into the kitchen, observing the woman humming to herself at the stove, her eyes focused on the food in front of her.

Well, if It's going to play the part, It's going to play it well. It walks up to her and wraps the arms around her middle, placing the head on her shoulder and snuggling into her neck. She giggles and bumps her hip with the body's.

"What ya makin?" It asks, the sound muffled by her skin.

"You have eyes don't you?" she smiles as she says it.

"Yeah, but I want you to to tell me."

She rolls her eyes and gestures behind them, "Fried eggs. Go sit down and stop bothering me."

It steps back, glad for an excuse to stop touching her. The thing she was pointing to is a counter that separates the kitchen from the living room and is surrounded with crappy, plastic bar stools. A comfortable silence settles over the kitchen when It sits down. It takes the opportunity to try to figure out how to casually ask Its fiance where It works.

"What took you so long?"

"What?"

"You were in the bathroom for a long time."

It hesitates, "Slept badly."

She turns to It, the worry from before back in her eyes. Then she pauses, her eyes flicking up to the hair, "No gel?"

So Scorpius did make that mistake. It shrugs, "Wanted to try something new."

Her eyebrows furrow in confusion, but she nods, "Looks good. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, just feeling a little weird," that feels like the wrong thing to say.

"Do you wanna stay home today?"

"No!" It nearly shouts, not really knowing why. Staying in the apartment sounds extremely unappealing.

She gives It an odd look and It backtracks, "I mean, no, I have a lot of work to do."

She snorts and turns back to the eggs, "I'm sure Rose is more than capable of handling it on her own. In fact, she'd probably be happier if you didn't show up."

"I'll go in," It says instead of responding directly, Its mind swimming from everything It didn't understand about that sentence.

"You seem a little off. Maybe you're sick."

"It's fine," It snaps.

She doesn't say anything as she serves up the eggs, sliding a plate over to It along with a fork and knife. She eats quickly, looking up at It every once in a while like she's scared that It'll do something weird or different.

It eats slowly, waiting for her to finish so she'll leave and It can search through the apartment for clues as to who Scorpius is and what he does.

When she finishes, she picks up her plate and utensils and puts them in the sink to wash later. Then she turns back to It and looks It dead in the eye.

The action is a little intimidating. It wonders what surprise they have for It this time. What plot twist they plan on pulling to make the whole thing more interesting. Is she going to tell It that she's pregnant? Reveal her secret identity as an international spy? Convince It to move with her to Columbia?

Or, will she say that she knows who It is, _what_ It is? That she wants revenge against the thing that replaced her real fiance? Will she ask where Scorpius is, expect It to explain what happens to the previous owners?

But they really can't expect It to answer for their actions. Although, knowing them, that's probably the joke.

Its wild speculations are unnecessary because she says, "Remember, we're meeting Albus and Lily tonight to announce the engagement. Be home by six."

That's menacing in its very own way. It really can't deal with all the name dropping It's had to endure this morning.

"Okay," It replies, nodding the head to reassure her. She gives It a relieved smile, like she expected It to protest, then she heads to the bathroom.

"I'm carpooling so take the car!" She yells back. "Have a nice day!"

"You too."

As soon as the shower comes on, It gets to work, looking through anything that may contain formal documents. The purse hanging on the coat rack must belong to the woman and contains a wallet with a hospital ID. It identifies her as Alice Longbottom, twenty-six, a resident at Bellevue Hospital Center.

It places everything back inside the purse and moves on, rifling through all cabinets and containers until It checks the pockets of a leather jacket hanging up on the rack.

The first thing It discovers is a police badge, which is a pretty good sign that Scorpius was (and is) a police officer. It spells out NYPD in shiny letters under a golden, blue crest. In a wallet, It finds a police ID that says the host's full name is Scorpius Malfoy and that he's a detective at the 78th precinct in New York City. The driver's license says the host is twenty-eight.

It shoves the wallet and badge back into the leather jacket and sits down at the counter to finish Its breakfast. After putting the plate in the sink, It goes through the kitchen to find some coffee, but there doesn't seem to be any. What kind of grown adult doesn't have coffee?

The keys to the car are already dangling on a finger when It hears the door to the bathroom open. It throws the leather jacket on and steps out of the apartment before the fiance can come back out, taking one final look at the place before shutting the door. It wants to believe so badly that It won't see it again.

It takes the stairs two at a time, the need to escape from this building where everything has changed growing inside It. When It pushes out into the lobby, It doesn't bother looking around to inspect the mundane greyness of a shitty, run-down, New York apartment building. Instead, It barrels ahead and out the front door into a bright, cloudless day. It has the clarity of mind to look back and check the unit number so It can find the place again.

The car is parked at the very end of the first row in the parking lot. It gets in, searches up the address of the precinct and sets up a GPS on the phone.

It's about to back out when It hesitates, grabs the phone, and finds the nearest Starbucks so It can grab a coffee on Its way to work. It's definitely going to need it.

* * *

 **That's all folks!**

 **I hope you enjoyed it, I'll be jumping into the real stuff next chapter. I'll try to keep updates within a two week time span, but it kinda depends on how busy school gets and how far ahead I've written.**

 **This story is rated mature because even if I decide not to include explicit sexual content, it still deals with a lot of intense topics like murder, suicide etc. Suicide is the specific reason why I'm going to keep this story mature, because the treatment of it may be triggering to some readers. If a chapter contains this kind of content, I'll mention it in the author's note at the beginning.**

 **With all that said, please favourite, follow and review. I love constructive criticism so if you have any, I'd appreciate it.**


	2. Live Like You Mean It

**And I'm back for chapter 2!**

 **I realize it's been a month since I posted the first chapter. I was hoping to at least accomplish my two weeks goal at the beginning. It was almost done around the two week mark and I was going to edit it and post it around that time. Unfortunately, I went through an intense bout of anxiety that same weekend, stopped eating, couldn't sleep etc. After that life just got very busy. Sorry about that, I'll try to do better for next time.**

 **Thank you to everyone who favorited, followed and reviewed. Stuff like that helps me remember my stuff isn't trash so thanks. I hope everyone enjoys this chapter :).**

 **Disclaimer: don't own Harry Potter or any characters you may recognize.**

* * *

 **Chapter Two: Live Like You Mean It**

" _Just as every cop is a criminal_

 _And all the sinners saints"_

 _\- The Rolling Stones_

* * *

"Malfoy!"

Her voice is hawkish as she stalks up to It, her head held high and shoulders pushed back. Deep blue eyes rush over Its figure and bore into the eyes with unyielding certainty. The eyes instinctively flick away from hers and focus on her hair, which bursts down her back in a torrent of hellish ringlets. The colours of her, blue, brown, _red_ , contrast sharply against her pale skin and black clothes. It's lived a lot of lives, seen a lot of people. But none quite like this woman. Her vividness is staggering. Her presence demands to be acknowledged as reality.

 _Like darkness._

She halts in front of the desk It's sitting at, _Scorpius Malfoy's desk_ , and scowls down at It. She probably enjoys scaring people if her purposeful aggression is anything to go by.

"You're late."

 _It is? Oops._

A response flies out of the mouth before It can even consider whether or not it's a good idea, "Sorry Your Highness. What time would it please you for me to come in?"

The question rings with sarcasm, but It hopes that she'll look past that and answer seriously. It really needs some straight answers about how It's supposed to live this life.

Much to Its chagrin, she decides to be difficult instead. Her steady eyes flick up to her hair and her eyebrows raise in surprise, "No horrific hair gel today?"

"No," It answers shortly, "What time?"

She gives It an odd look which will probably be the first of many, "Preferably on time."

"There's still twenty minutes till the briefing," It knows this because the minute It had stepped into the precinct, a tall lanky white man had approached him with a flurry of incomprehensible questions. Once he had realized that It hadn't the slightest clue of what he was talking about (which earned It the first odd look of the day), he had cut off the conversation by reminding It of the briefing. It had previously thought that this was useful information, though by the look on the woman's face, it is not.

She rolls her eyes, "We have work to do."

There are many questions that come to Its mind based on that statement alone. It asks the one that seems most pertinent.

" _We?_ "

She sighs in exasperation, "I know we've got this whole _eternal-rivals-for-life_ dynamic, but yes, _we_ have to work together. Need I remind you that's how partnerships work?"

That's when It conveniently remembers something Alice said this morning. Something about someone named Rose who could handle herself without It. It looks at the desk attached to Scorpius' and the eyes settles on a small silver nameplate. Her name is carved into it in neat block letters: 'Rose Weasley'.

It turns back to look at her, "What work?"

She smiles wickedly, "Thomas dropped a case on my desk this morning. Disappearance."

"And you're happy about that?"

Her scowl returns in full force, "Get off your high horse. You're excited too."

It wonders what it says about Scorpius that he enjoyed disappearances. Probably nothing. Most humans are oddly fascinated with stories of grotesque horror. That's why there's an entire movie genre dedicated to it. But It's also never been a cop before, mostly because It thinks that the justice system is pointless. That means that It does feel a little rush of excitement at the prospect of handling something like this. Hollywood movies may be cheesy, but they're great at making criminal cases look cool.

"Who disappeared?"

"An ex-con."

"What can we do before the briefing?"

Another odd look, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

Rose is silent for a few moments, before hesitantly nodding, "There's files on the victim and some evidence that's already been submitted. I want to take it out of the evidence room and comb through it."

"Okay."

Rose turns away and starts walking through the bullpen, headed for a hallway on the left. It doesn't follow, doesn't think It needs to. Instead, It turns back to the computer and brings up the window It was looking at before she came over. Alice Longbottom's facebook page, on which Scorpius is featured quite heavily.

Before It can even click on the personal information tab, a disgruntled voice comes from behind It.

"I meant _now_ ," It looks over the shoulder to see Rose standing in the middle of the bullpen, tapping her foot impatiently. It sighs and exits the window, grabbing the coffee from the desk and walking over to her slowly (mostly to annoy her). But she doesn't move when It comes up beside her. She just stares at the coffee in the hand like it came out of an alternate dimension.

"Is that _coffee_?"

It looks down at the Americano that It's been nursing all morning and then back to Rose, "Looks like it."

"Did someone die?"

That doesn't even make sense. Why does no one in Scorpius' life make any sense?

 _Probably because It doesn't know anything about his life._

 _(Whatever.)_

"What are you talking about?"

"You don't _drink_ coffee."

The eyes narrow and It shakes the head a little, "Then what do I do with it?"

She gives an aggravated groan, "Not what I meant."

It shrugs, but her eyes stay trained on It, waiting for further explanation. When It doesn't say anything, she tries again. For someone who hates Scorpius, she seems awfully invested in his life.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

She doesn't seem convinced, but she lets it go with a scoff and turn of her heels, not bothering to look if It's following this time. Knowing It will.

And It does.

* * *

The briefing room is surprisingly small, compact, detectives in lax uniforms sitting down at the tables and uniformed officers (the inferiors in this place) squeezing in at the sides. A silent hierarchy naturally assembled. A podium stands at the front of the room with a whiteboard pinned up behind it and a presentation board standing precariously to the left. There's no one at the front except the man who had accosted It in the morning, a clipboard gripped tightly in his hands, an air of authority surrounding him.

Rose is sitting next to It, talking the goddamn ear off obsessively, her mind never straying from the case. They had brought out five heavy boxes filled with various documents, only to be called into the meeting moments later. They didn't even get a chance to look at them. But when It had asked why they couldn't have just brought in the boxes later or, better yet, looked through them in the storage room, she had cut It off and told It she was taking none of Its shit. It could understand why she had been Scorpius' eternal rival or whatever.

"So I think the kidnapping may have been motivated by some kind of revived connection to criminal activity. I don't want to profile, but the man _was_ an ex-con, he may have gotten pulled back in. We should look through his bank statements to see if there's any-" she cuts off and snaps her fingers in front of Its face, "Malfoy!"

"Hmm?"

"Are you even listening to me?"

It's hard not to, "Criminal motivations, bank statements and whatnot," It waves the hand vaguely, a little mockingly.

She looks away and grunts, "Is it just me or are you being more of a dick than usual?"

It looks over at her and raises one eyebrow, "Definitely you."

She scoffs and opens her mouth to respond, but is (thankfully) cut off by a tall black man striding into the room and up to the podium. The morning man shuts the door behind him and the whole room goes quiet.

"Good morning everyone," The man at the podium says in a gruff voice, shuffling the papers in front of him, "We've had some updates on out crime stats. Sergeant?"

He looks over at the white man, who nods his head seriously and looks down at his clipboard, before rattling out statistics and corresponding analysis.

At this time, It decides quite consciously to tune out everything around It. Nothing personal towards the sergeant. It's just that crime stats are very uninteresting. To curb Its boredom, It scans the faces around It, searching for the common denominator. It doesn't take long to find it because it's exactly what It noticed this morning.

It couldn't tell what it was then, but now It can.

They're all oblivious to the presence around them.

The precinct feels heavy. Heavy in that way that dull things are heavy. Measured, weighted, precise. But heavy all the same.

It's no stranger to heaviness. Heavy jobs, heavy lives, heavy souls. It's no stranger.

Yet this type of heaviness puts It on edge because nothing has ever felt so heavily _mundane_. So mindful of the fact that evil doesn't live like the outrageous Hollywood movies claim it does. Not in discrete moments of horrific violence and gore. Evil lives as a persistent shadow, lining the very edges of life, ready to strike at the slightest signs of vulnerability.

It looks around, surprised, impressed, maybe a little disappointed with the fact that no one else seems to mind the heaviness. They seem to treat it like an everyday occurrence. Which for them, it probably is. Focused or distracted, cheerful or melancholy, meticulous or careless. They all ignore the heaviness. Or maybe they just don't notice it. Either way, it seems like It's travelled into some alternate dimension where the grotesque and sinister is easier to swallow than the kind and thoughtful.

"Scorpius!"

It winces and turns to Rose, a razor sharp retort ready on tip of the tongue. Then It realizes that Rose and It are the only ones left in the room. Scratch that; Rose, It and the black man that's probably the precinct captain are the only ones left in the room. And Rose is giving It that odd look again.

 _This is going great._

Rose tips her head sharply towards the captain, who's raising one pointed eyebrow in their direction. It realizes the captain was probably trying to get Its attention.

"Yes sir?"

"Can I see you in my office please?"

May _I see you in my office._

It bites the tongue before the correction can come out, but nods sharply and follows the man out of the room. Rose quickly falls into step beside It.

"He called on you like three times," she says in the worst stage whisper It's ever heard. It doesn't want the captain to overhear, so It just nods in response.

She looks away and shakes her head, "Jesus, first the gel, then the coffee, now this?" she pauses, throws It a hesitant look before staring straight ahead. "Something's wrong."

"Don't have to tell me," It mumbles, then clears the throat when she raises a questioning eyebrow, "I _mean_ , I'm fine. It's sweet that you're worried though."

The line has the desired effect when Rose grimaces and grumbles, "I'm not." Then she promptly cuts across the bullpen back to their joint desks. She rifles through the case files aggressively, before pulling one out and spreading pages across her desk. It watches her eyes fly over the pages, focus deep, mind intent. It watches so closely that It nearly walks right into the captain, who's holding the door to his office open for It.

It mumbles an apology and then a thank you, slipping in and looking over the office, eyes raking through the contents. It's bare, utilitarian. There's a single wooden desk in the middle with two large black chairs behind and in front of it. Papers are scattered haphazardly across the desk, like the man couldn't be bothered to organize them. It takes note of the shiny nameplate at the front, turned outwards: 'Dean Thomas'.

The door closes quietly and It feels a brief bout of panic at the thought of being trapped, caged in with a man It doesn't know. But the feeling passes when Thomas motions to the black chair on this side of the desk. It hesitates, then figures Scorpius would probably sit down, so It does. Knees spread, hands lying across the arm rests. Trying so hard to be casual.

The captain sits and inhales, deep and thorough, and looks It in the eye in that weird way that makes It feel like he's looking at _It_. Not at It in Scorpius Malfoy's body, but at the pure form It exists in. The panic rises in the chest again.

Its mind races, thinking of all the things It has done that could have possibly given It away. It knows It's been acting weird, at least for Scorpius' standards, but it's really unfair to call It out for that. It didn't choose this life.

 _(Quite literally.)_

But in a surprise turn of events, the captain decides not to chew It out for something outside of Its control. Instead, his hand splays out on the desk and he leans forward in that odd way male authority figures do when they want to establish intimacy. It's had some experience with aggressive male authority figures trying to establish _intimacy_.

It doesn't get that feeling from Thomas though. His body language is unthreatening, maybe even a little welcoming. It has to remind Itself that this could mean nothing. After all, It is in the body of a man. If the guy were a pig, he'd surely act differently around men than women. As it is, It has no reason to distrust the man.

 _It also has no reason to trust him._

"Are you okay?" It is so goddamn sick of hearing that. "Did something happen between you and Alice?"

The genuine shock flows through the body and It feels the need to laugh to relieve some of the awkward tension It's feeling. Scorpius had some weird choice for personal confidantes if he thought it was appropriate to go running to his _fucking captain_ whenever his relationship was in peril. Every minute It spends in this body makes Its hate for the previous occupant grow tenfold.

It decides to play dumb, "What?"

He leans back like having a chat about a detective's love life is a daily occurrence, "You guys have been dating for quite a while. Did you split up?"

It shakes off the ridiculousness of the situation and chooses Its next words very carefully, "What makes you think we split up?"

"You didn't? That's a relief. Otherwise I'd be consoling Neville for the next three decades. He's really overly fond of you," _who's Neville?!_ "So what's wrong? You seemed so absent during the meeting. You're usually so focused."

It takes a note of that for later.

"I'm just tired."

He nods a little, but It doesn't think he believes It. The action inexplicably reminds It of Rose. "Alright, make sure you get some rest tonight," he shoots It a crooked grin that makes him look ten years younger, "can't have one of my best detectives sleeping on the job."

"Yes sir," It starts getting up, but quickly gets stopped in Its tracks.

"You're not dismissed yet," Thomas says good naturedly. "Did you think I called you in here just to gossip about your personal life?"

Actually, that's exactly what It had thought. It reluctantly shrinks back into the seat.

"I need to talk to you about that trial you're testifying in," He shuffles around some of the papers on his desk before pulling a stack to the forefront.

It gives him a blank look, waiting for him to continue. The captain doesn't, as though he expects It to jump in and comment on something It knows nothing about. Granted, Scorpius Malfoy probably _would_ know what he's talking about. Alas, It is not Scorpius. At least not really.

 _(It could become him though. It wants to.)_

 _NO!_

The silence stretches on and It resorts to tapping the foot, staring at a spec on the wall in the corner of the room, pinching the skin on the inside of the wrist. It's officially resigned to the fact that It's going to have to suffer through a lot of awkward silences in this lifetime. It's resigned, but that doesn't mean It has to like it.

Thomas' face slowly melts into an expression of common confusion that all Scorpius' colleagues have been sporting today, "The drug bust you pulled a few months ago? You're testifying in the trial next Wednesday."

It doesn't even bat an eyelash, just goes with the flow, "Right. What about it?"

"The guy's willing to talk. Maybe rat out some higher level perps."

"Cool."

The odd look is back on the captain's face, "We need you to talk to him."

That may be a problem because It doesn't know how to do real police work, "Can't Weasley do it?"

Thomas shakes his head, "The guy said he would only talk to you."

That catches Its attention. It's not psyched that a random convict coincidentally decided to talk and, more importantly, talk _only to Scorpius Malfoy_ on the same day It inhabited his body.

There doesn't seem to be a way out of this, but It tries anyway, desperate, "It could be a trap. We shouldn't give into his demands from the get go."

 _Sounds like cop drama bullshit._

A look of annoyance crosses Thomas' face, "I'm still your captain, Malfoy. This is your case and you'll handle the interrogation this Friday. Dismissed."

* * *

It doesn't know how It didn't stumble upon the victim's photo sooner, considering that they've been going through case files all fucking day. Needless to say, Rose is incredibly thorough. The first thing she'd said when It had come out of Thomas' office was, "You take that box I'll take this one. Look through _everything_."

"Do you ever turn off?" It had asked.

She had just rolled her eyes and flashed a secretive smile, "My personal life is none of your business, Malfoy. Start looking."

Now, after several hours of combing through every inch of every case file they could find that seemed even remotely related to the disappearance, they're standing in front of the white board in the briefing room. There's an array of papers posted on the board, ranging from court documents to financial statements to mob and gang crime stats. It feels very overwhelmed.

Rose is up at the board, drawing lines between things she thinks connect. This is way harder than It imagined police work would ever be. It kind of assumed that cops were always incompetent pigs that sat around pointing fingers all day.

 _Strictly speaking, It's never been on the_ right _side of the law…_

But Rose seems to know exactly what she's doing, her movements and decisions measured and sure. Nothing is changed without a reason, everything is logical and well thought out. It's reminded of the feeling It got when It first saw her, that she seemed more alive than everyone else, more vivid.

She's still staring at the board when she asks, "What did the captain want?"

It raises an eyebrow even though she can't see the action, "You're asking me now?"

"I forgot it happened."

It wants to argue, but quickly decides against it, "Some guy I arrested is ready to talk or something."

"Which one?"

It hesitates, "Drug dealer."

"Sterling?"

"Maybe," It recognizes that It could probably put more effort into being Scorpius, but honestly, It does not know what's going on. Better to just give up.

"You don't know."

It's supposed to be a question, but it comes out as a statement. It shrugs.

"Do you have a concussion? Amnesia? Have you been possessed?"

She doesn't even know how close she is to the truth with the last one. It tries not to laugh and fails. She turns and looks at It like the body has grown a second head.

"Seriously, do I need to be concerned?"

It pretends to think for a moment, "I don't think so."

"Because I am."

"Cute."

"Not for _you_ ," she turns back to the board, "I just don't want to be murdered in the middle of the night."

"I wouldn't do _that_ ," It shoots back, "you're no use to me if you're dead. Abduction, now that's where it's at."

Rose huffs out a laugh and then looks over her shoulder, surprised, "Did you just make a joke?"

The eyebrows furrow and one side of the mouth quirks up, "Is that not something I usually do?"

"You literally have no sense of humour."

 _Wow, Scorpius sounds like a real fun guy. Of all the lives to fall into, It had to fall into this one._

It rolls the eyes, "You're a dick."

She nods her head and looks away, "That's more like it."

The silence stretches on, oddly comfortable this time, as Rose looks over the files and It tries to figure out what the connections mean.

"What's the name of the guy that disappeared?" It asks, not because It actually cares, but because there's nothing better to do.

"Connor Walsh."

It blanches, " _What?_ "

"Connor Walsh," She repeats and suddenly stalks across the room, "I have his picture somewhere around here."

It tries to process. The name sounds so familiar. Too familiar. Rose posts the photo of his mugshot up on the board and It freezes.

" _Oh my god._ "

In an instant, the blood runs cold, feeling leaving the body. The light in the room becomes dim, the edges of reality fuzzy and incomplete. It feels like It's back in _The Corridor_ , floating through space without the slightest tether to reality. The only thing in view is the picture in front of It. _Connor Walsh_.

Another century, another decade, another year, another week, another day. Another life. Smells of burning flesh, thick and foaming in the air. Ground hits knees, dizziness looming over like the true form of God himself. This was the horror of the Geraldine Rebellion.

 _Another life._

The scene shifts before It gets sucked in again. Before the knees feel like _Its_ knees. Before the smoke filled lungs feel like Its own. _His own_.

It stands in a small room now. The eyes are already looking down at the strong, pale forearms of Connor Walsh. The head looks up, but It doesn't control the movements. Any of the movements. It is a voyeur in a recent memory.

A woman stares back at Connor, smiling, her light brown skin shining, eyes to match.

' _Can you go get the ice cream?'_

The lips move against Its volition.

' _Sure.'_

The body moves, travels deeper and deeper into the house. New rooms, new hallways. A life It's never seen passing before Its eyes. There are pictures up on the walls, cracks in the blue paint and crown moulding. It watches as the man plunges into the depths of darkness, down the bare skeleton of the staircase, gripping the bannister tightly.

A cooler is lightly illuminated at the bottom, the rest of the room shrouded in darkness. It doesn't trust this. It feels trapped. It wants to force the body to _leave_. It can't.

Because this is just a memory. A memory of the man It had once been walking down a set of stairs, opening a cooler at the end of the room, reaching to the left side to grab an ice cream carton. The chill of the freezer is gentle, effectively masks the true chill that sets in moments later.

It feels it before the body did. The presence doesn't really _arrive_ because it's always been there, curled up in Connor Walsh's shadow, watching, waiting for the perfect moment.

 _(~they're coming~)_

What happens next isn't special. It's not unique or interesting. One moment, the man is straightening up, looking at the ice cream in his hands and feeling that inexplicable pulse of love that comes with everyday objects. He hates this flavour, but the woman… the woman loves it. And he loves her. So it doesn't matter.

Then he's doubling over, head hitting hard against the side of the cooler. The carton drops out of his hands, rolls across the ground. There's fingers running over the body, something that feels almost _human_ , pulling, grasping, reaching, stealing the breath away. The man doesn't even have the time to feel scared. He dies. Instantaneous, derivative, anticlimactic.

 _True tragedy._

It stares into the darkness that isn't darkness anymore. Instead, there's a shining, illuminating, blinding light crawling over the room inch by inch by inch by inch. Buzzing, grows and grows, louder and louder, as the light intensifies, room shrinks, suffocates. It can't scream or speak, just watch as something steals the life of an innocent man out from under him. Like an exceptionally unamusing magic trick.

A thought echoes through the room, the man's final words: _Carla_.

Then It's floating above the room, staring at a dank, dark cellar It was physically inside moments before. Now there's nothing. Nothing. Nothing but the sound of an ice cream carton rolling across the ground.

' _Scorpius?'_

It looks up at the platform at the top of the stairs and sees the woman, _Carla_ , her lips moving.

 _Saying his name._

No. That's not _Its_ name. That's _his_ name. _It_ is not _him_.

She speaks again, but when her voice comes out, it sounds like Rose.

' _Scorpius!'_

The woman begins to panic and descends, eyes searching the room frantically. But there's nothing. She walks over the place where his body had been lying moments before. He stares helplessly as she walks around the room over and over and over again, a broken record. She gives up and runs upstairs. He follows her. She's crying, her lips opening in the shape of the man's name, but her prayer is gone. The lack of sound rings through the house, silence after a gunshot.

He wants to stay with her. Reach out to her. But.

" _Scorpius!_ "

He's back in the precinct, the light pounding down on him. Rose is in front of him. Too close, he can smell the undercurrent of lemon and lilac that lingers on her skin. The sensation of skin on skin shocks him. She's running her thumb over his hand in soothing circles.

 _No. That's wrong. Not him, not him, not him._ It _._

The eyes focus and from this distance, It can see the freckles painted across her skin, a map of constellations dancing in a pale light. It looks down where her hands are connected to _the_ hands and inhales sharply at how natural it looks.

This action seems to snap her out of whatever bubble they'd existed in for a brief period of time. She drops the hand and takes a purposeful step back, hands hanging down loosely and lamely at her sides.

"Should I call an ambulance?" she asks gruffly, not looking at It. "You had some kind of episode. Your eyes glazed over and you were unresponsive."

It strikes her, how clinical she sounds. Like she deals with this kind of thing every single day. Maybe she does.

It shakes the head, mind still clouded over with… what was it? A vision? A dream? The only thing It knows is that the vision was real. It _happened_. Or maybe it _will_ happen. The details are starting to blur.

"I'm-" It stutters, cuts off, takes a deep breath, "I'm fine. I'm going to the bathroom."

It turns away and walks towards the door briskly, but before It can get far, It feels Rose's hand catch the wrist, "Wait."

The look Rose gives It is pervasive. Her eyes roam, looking for inconsistencies, contradictions, faults. It feels like she can see _It_. Not Scorpius Malfoy, but _It_ for who It really is. The look is simultaneously thrilling and frightening.

She drops the wrist with no warning, her eyes growing blank, "Okay, whatever."

It doesn't understand, stands there, wrist hanging in the air, the ghost of her fingers curled around the skin. Then It realizes It's been given a pass. The fact that she didn't just ask an onslaught of questions is a miracle. It whips around and runs across the bullpen to a bathroom they passed while grabbing the case files.

When It gets into the men's room, It checks the lock on the door five times before It falls to ground in front of the toilet and disposes the contents of the body. Leaving it empty. This nausea is akin to the feeling It gets when It's associating or has just entered a new body. But there's no euphoria this time. Instead, It feels like one force is actively trying to push It out of the body, back It into a corner, while the other tries to mash It into Scorpius, make them one and the same.

It throws up again.

It blindly grabs at the toilet paper roll, gripping it like a lifeline and ripping it to wipe off the mouth. Then, It grabs the top of the toilet and pulls Itself up, flushing and turning around to face the mirror.

The palms press hard against the counter, turning the knuckles white from pressure, "I am _not_ Scorpius."

The eyes shift, reflect the image of the body back at It.

 _(~your body~) (~you are Scorpius~)_

It grinds the teeth, pushes down harder, fights the ripping pain inside, "I am not _him_. This is not _my body_."

 _(~it has to be~)_

The pain grows sweeter, sharper, more acute. Sweat pools near the small of the back as It strains with the effort to keep Itself separate. There's a climax, a pain so exquisite that It falls to the knees, head hitting the counter.

 _Just like Connor._

Then it stops. The pain stops. The body is still separate. It _won_.

It takes a few more moments to just stare at the body in the mirror. It's ragged, hair messed, face paler than before if that's even possible. The body is starting to react to Its emotions. Never a good sign.

The decision is made then and there. It's leaving. It has to or else It'll just keep moulding to Scorpius' life, becoming him. That can't happen.

That can't happen because something is after It and it won't stop until it has It.

* * *

The car in front of It inches forward, tires rolling across smooth gravel, the movement simultaneously encouraging and utterly disheartening. The eyes flit to the GPS set up on the dash. It's stuck in a traffic jam heading out of New York City. Massachusetts is still two and a half hours away, probably three and a half judging by all the jams. It looks back to the road.

After the _unpleasantness_ in the bathroom, It had sneaked out of the precinct and headed straight for the car, weaving through the streets and back to the apartment as fast as It could without getting ticketed. Rose had called within the first ten minutes of Its escape. It had ignored the resultant notes of Beethoven's fifth symphony playing over and over again. Scorpius must have been a real nerd.

The universe had been on Its side for the first time ever because Alice hadn't been back yet when It got to the apartment. So It took anything valuable It could find and left within half an hour. Around this time, a line of frantic texts had started to trickle in. Rose had threatened just about everything from calling Alice to bodily harm. It ignored these too.

The plan is: cross the border, ditch the phone, get to the nearest airport, buy a ticket to anywhere in Europe. It'll get rid of the wallet and change Its identity when It gets to Italy or Spain or Germany or wherever else that's not here.

It acknowledges that, yes, it is a bit of a dick move to abandon Scorpius' fiance and basically rob her blind while doing it. One day she's engaged to the man of her dreams and then next he's run off with all her shit.

 _How romantic._

It tries to ignore how much it all sounds like the plot to a bad movie. But It has sound justification for leaving: It's selfish. It can't deal with this life. The confusion, the randomness, the conformity. It hates it all.

 _(Those three adjectives basically describe the life It's always lived though.)_

 _Shut up!_

Most of all, It knows that something is after It and It wants to survive at all costs. It doesn't know if It can die, but It doesn't want to risk Its life to find out.

So instead of thinking about Alice, Rose, Thomas ( _Neville?_ ), It thinks about the things ahead of _It_ , not Scorpius. Then It turns up the radio and continues to crawl across the highway.

 _(~won't work~)_

* * *

The calls start coming in an hour later. It grabs the phone when Mozart's Sonata No. 17 starts flowing out of the phone speaker, rolling the eyes at the ringtone.

It holds the phone over the wheel precariously. 'Alice' with a heart emoji flashes across the screen. It's five thirty. For a brief second, It considers taking the call, making some excuse about work. Then It realizes Alice has probably talked to Rose. It remembers the dinner party as It drops the phone in the passenger seat, and feels a pang of guilt that passes quickly. It doesn't matter.

 _A clean cut is for the best._

The highway has shifted, few cars drifting across it the farther away from the city It gets. Fields stretch out on either side, barns and animals dotting the land in little clusters. The lack of humanity makes It feel safe, ensures that there are no shadows lurking behind corners or monsters hiding in closets.

'All Star' bursts through the tranquility of the countryside, reminding It of why humanity is a waste and why It's leaving in the first place. It doesn't bother grabbing the phone this time, just looks to the right where it sits face up, the name 'Al' flashing across the screen. It lets it go to voicemail, focusing energy on planning out the next few days of Its life.

But the phone doesn't stop ringing. They come in one after the other, a weird mashup of 'All Star' and No. 17 going around again and again.

 _A broken record._

When It hears 'All Star' for the fifteenth time, It pulls over and blocks 'Al'. After this experience, It's pretty sure It has no interest in meeting him anyway. The calls from Alice continue to come through and 'Lily' starts calling, her name in the middle of two devil emojis. It's pretty sure It doesn't want to know her either. If everything works out, these names will all become distant memories.

Around the two hour mark (six thirty), the calls are only trickling in, so It looks over when It hears Beethoven's fifth symphony play for the first time in an hour or two. 'Weasley' flashes across the screen. For some odd, irrational reason, It's tempted to pick up the phone. Instead, It forces the eyes back on the road and ignores the call dutifully. But they just keep coming in, one after the other. Even Scorpius' fiance wasn't this persistent.

The calls get so annoying that It can't even focus on the goddamn road, treacherous notes and insistent buzzing breaking through quiet every thirty seconds. Finally, It pulls over and waits for her to call again. When she does, It sends her one of those generic excuse texts smartphones offer, mostly because It thinks it'll piss her off. Then It blocks her and keeps driving.

* * *

It's almost at the Massachusetts border when the dashboard starts blinking, letting It know that the car is low on gas.

 _The tank was full an hour ago._

 _(~no it wasn't~)_

It turns off the highway the next time It sees a gas station.

The place is a total shitbox, run down in that way that's old _and_ uncared for. It doesn't even have those machines that let people pay for gas with a credit card. It's dark outside, but fluorescent street lamps circle the parking lot, illuminating the space in an eerie glow that reminds It of the bathroom. This kind of light takes an unnatural shape.

 _(~won't work~)_

It briefly considers leaving because the change is palpable. Whatever is following It has gotten closer. It dismisses the idea when It realizes It has nowhere to go if the car doesn't work. The man working at the gas station is clear through the window, playing on his phone. It honks the horn once, twice to get his attention. The guy looks up and It can tell he's a little annoyed by the way he takes much longer than necessary to press the button that permits It to pump the gas.

It makes quick work of the whole thing, pumping in twelve gallons and then jogging towards the joint station/convenience store. When It steps over the threshold, an odd chill sweeps through It, prompting It to scan the area for any signs of trouble. There's a diner to the right of the door, empty as far as It can tell, but before It can even process that, the feet are steering It to the left where an overweight man stands behind a counter. His beady eyes follow the news on a small shitty television. He looks over when he hears It coming.

"How much?" It barks. It looks out the window where the lights seem to have gotten brighter, bouncing off the car callously. The itching is back. The itching is everywhere.

"Thirty-eight, fifty," the man's voice is painfully neutral as he rings It up, going impossibly slow.

It pads at the jacket, feeling the heavy weight in the pocket and breathing a sigh of relief when It pulls out a wallet with a credit card tucked in the front.

The crash comes before It can even pull out the card. It turns, the hair on the arms and back of the neck rises, connection inescapable. The diner is all greasy tiles, counters, barstools and booths. The diner is all _red_ , the stinging lights enhancing its malignity. A man, tall and intimidating, balding, stands next to the closest booth, near the line that separates diner from store. There's a half eaten burger gripped lightly in his hand, but his eyes are decidedly trained on It. The burger drops to the ground.

It turns back to the man behind the counter, "Card. I'm in a rush."

The look the man gives him is unimpressed. He continues at the same pace. Because of course.

 _It just had to stop at the gas station with the slowest employee known to man._

Footsteps echo across the station and It whips the head around again, surveying the place again like a sentry. Stalky McGee has moved to Its right, two aisles down, pretending to browse the products while watching It in his periphery.

"Sir," the credit card machine is stuck out in front of It, plump fingers loosely wrapped around the edges. It snatches the thing away with an amount of force that is definitely unnecessary, but feels very necessary under these circumstances. The smooth plastic sticks into place without a hitch and It quickly follows the instructions on the pin pad. That's about the time when It realizes that it doesn't know the pin.

 _Fuck._

 _(Of course.)_

The eyes travel up to look at the man again who's leaning against the counter with his back turned to It. The news has changed over to some infomercial on acne cream. Then It looks to the right. He's moved one aisle closer and is now just blatantly staring at It. The heart rate rises, pulse rapid inside the body. It pulls out two twenties and drops them on the counter.

"Keep the change," It doesn't wait for an answer, just turns and stalks down the aisle, eyes trained on the door. It prays to every god It's never believed in to just let It get out of this one.

No such luck. Halfway to the door, the man steps into the end of the aisle. Between It and the exit, a physical block, a barrier. Apparently the non-existent gods It doesn't believe in weren't feeling particularly benevolent today. Or ever, really.

The room becomes an aisle. One single infernal aisle that It has to get through. It pretends that nothing is wrong, keeps walking, head held high, shoulders pushed back. The darkness outside has never looked more inviting.

 _It's the light that scares It._

The guy is around three paces away when It says, "Excuse me," and tries to slip past him discreetly. An arm sticks out in front of It. It looks over at Stalky McGee who stares down at It like It's an ant he's about to crush.

Scorpius' body isn't short or small by any means. He's tall, maybe six foot, and lean with taut skin and defined muscles. But the guy staring down at him is on a whole other level. At least six foot five with a massive build and insane muscles. It has no idea how It didn't notice him when It first walked in.

 _Maybe he hadn't been there at all._

It lets out an exasperated sigh, feigning irritation despite being terrified, "I've got somewhere to be."

"No you don't."

There's such certainty in his voice that It does a double take, stares at the man dumbly, " _What?_ "

"Go back."

The statement implies that he _knows_. This man knows who It really is and what It's leaving behind.

 _Impossible._

It stares into his eyes. They're blue, but there's a thin film hovering over the irises, clouds obscuring a perfect sky.

"Where?"

"Home."

It scoffs, "I have no home."

"You do now," a wicked smile creeps over his face, like he understands a joke It's not privy to.

It decides that It has no choice. It has to resort to Its last option, the one It hasn't used due to fear. Because if It doesn't work, It's truly stranded in this hellish reality with nothing that makes It superior or powerful or exceptional. Tentatively, It reaches out to the man. He doesn't stop the movement, but stares down at the hand with an intensity that makes It inexplicably nervous. The hand touches the skin of the wrist and for the second time in the last twelve hours, It tries to establish a connection. This time, instead of grabbing at memories, It grabs at the man's deepest desires, worst fears, and internalised insecurities.

Images flash before Its eyes like they usually do. A little girl running through a field, her eyes wide and shining as she looks up at a beautiful woman. The woman is looking at It. But she's not really looking at _It_. She's looking at him and It's just looking through his eyes. It feels his overwhelming happiness. It is yet again reminded how simple yet deep the desires of humans can be.

But there's something different this time. The picture is burned at the edges, too much light filtering through, the fluorescence of the gas station clear in the background, making the story nearly translucent in quality. It blinks and the whole place is gone, the man in front of him coming back to view. There's no usual rush, no feeling of power or control. No ability to manipulate the person in front of It. Just a distinct hollowness. The remnants of the very human sorrow this man must feel.

" _You want to move_ ," It commands anyway, desperation seeping into Its voice. " _You want to go see her, both of them. If you don't, you'll regret it for the rest of your life_."

The man is still looking at the hand, shakes his head like he's trying not to comply. His other fist clenches at his side and his teeth grit. It grows hopeful. This might just work.

And then it doesn't. The man's posture straightens, stiffens, and he looks up at It again. His mouth stretches into a wide, sardonic, self-deprecating and heartbreakingly sad smile. His eyes have gone white.

"I would if I could."

The next moment, his fist is connecting solidly with the jaw, sending the entire body back. It knocks into the nearest shelf, mind trying to piece together the moments before impact to make sense of what just happened. Winding up, whistling through the air, crashing through the jaw. It doesn't see the next punch, but It senses it coming, the fist digging deep and then coming up into the stomach. The body bends over reflexively, allowing a sharp elbow to strike the top of the head. It crumbles to the ground.

Warmth and pain combines, melds together in a cruel cacophony of sensation, blood leaking from Its body. Every nerve and joint connected, It feels the physical frailty of this container that holds It. The fact that this stranger would dare disrespect _Its_ body in such an irreparable manner is the only thing that forces It back up onto Its feet. To stare down the towering figure hunched above.

The beast looks unnatural, mouth curled into a cruel sneer, eyes blank and hollow, clouded over with a fog so thick It could cut it with a knife. His skin is too pale, stretched taut, bones jutting out stiffly. He's not thin, but at this moment, it seems as though It could map out the exact shape and size of each individual rib, feel every bone in his skeletal face.

There's a surge of energy, strength, that courses through Its body.

He sucker punches Stalky McGee in the neck.

 _And it feels incredible._

The way the man's head is propelled to the side is a rare image of violent beauty. Bones cracking and breath rushing out of the body. No damage to the mind, yet an innate connection with the pain somewhere else. He's fascinated by the way his fist can do so much damage. Fascinated and terrified.

Everything after that happens smoothly and succinctly. He swipes the man's legs out from under him, leading the huge body to topple over, failing its owner. He punches Stalky McGee's stomach as he goes down, just to make sure he stays down. Then, once all is said and done and the man lies on the ground, body trying to regain control, he steps over him politely and walks to the door, only breaking out into a run once he's cleared the front doors.

He barely registers the flickering lights as he races towards the car, adrenaline pumping, heart beating fast. Once he's in the car, he jams the key into the ignition and tries to start it. It stalls, over and over again until it finally catches. He looks over for one last look at the man who gets up slowly, cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders back. The sounds are clear even from the safety of his car. Then he starts walking, out the door, towards him, the lights flashing dubiously around him. The man is constantly in view.

He floors it, only seeing a brief flash as the man tries to jump for the car, misses, falls away somewhere in the back. His heart is still going like a jackhammer when he gets back on the highway. He keeps driving. Refuses to look back.

* * *

It takes him fifteen minutes to realize that he's let part of himself associate. Accepted the pronoun. Possessed the body. He stops at the side of the road, turns on the shitty car lights, and turns his attention to the tiny mirror.

He becomes _It_ again.

* * *

When It flicks on the headlights, they come out odd and fluorescent. The road looks distorted and sick, the illumination creating a trail of blood poured out in the center of the road, red beating into the eyes with fierce intensity.

It turns them off.

* * *

The night grows blacker as It approaches the border. It's oddly comforted by the lack of light. At least It doesn't have to see the unspeakable horrors that no doubt lie all around It. But the expectation is almost as bad, especially with an overactive imagination.

It's imagining all the ways something could go wrong when something actually _does_ go wrong. The sound of sirens arise from behind It, scaring It despite the fact that It saw this coming. It panics for a few reasons. The first comes as a result of Its forced dissociation from the body. For a second, It's irrationally _scared_ of the police because It forgets that It inhabits a white body. So It pulls over immediately, no second thoughts. It isn't worth the risk. It could _die_.

Then It remembers.

Next, It feels the superficial fear of having to deal with a ticket for driving at least forty miles over the speed limit. There's probably some kind of over the top penalty for that kind of recklessness. This is why It hates the justice system. There's no cars for miles around, but cops still get off on pulling It over. It's all about the principle.

And that's when It finally realizes that this isn't a normal stop. This is more of that freaky, stalker bullshit that went down in the gas station. The police aren't in control; something else is pulling the strings.

This third type of fear is the deepest. It wants to drive off, damn the consequences. It'll probably be worse if It lets them apprehend It. But before It can even go down that route, a loud booming voice comes out from the road.

"Come out with your hands up!"

When It looks back, there are several police cars standing behind It, a set up of armed officers surrounding Its car, and two officers dead in the center, one holding a megaphone.

How did they find It? Maybe a 9-1-1 call form the employee at the station. Maybe the same supernatural force that's been chasing It all damn day. Probably a combination of both. It no longer makes any sense to run. They can't charge It for defending Itself and if they want something else… well, It'll figure it out as It goes. That's what It's been doing for Its whole life and It hasn't died yet.

 _Or rather, It's died multiple times, just not really._

So It turns the car off and steps out into the night, putting the hands behind the head. The rough gravel scrapes against skin when It gets down on the knees. Slowly, the two officers in the center, one with the megaphone, the other with a gun pointed at the chest, come up to It. The woman with the gun moves around It cautiously, cutting off the tension when she grabs the hands behind the head and cuffs them. It considers touching her wrist and trying to establish a connection again, convincing her to let It go. That's before It sees Officer Megaphone's eyes. They're clouded over, nearly white, pale brown shining through the film.

When he speaks, his voice is monotonous and robotic as he reads out Its Miranda rights. The woman pushes It forward roughly, pushes It towards the nearest cop car. It's not safe with these people, has never trusted cops but trusts these cops even less. It fears the worst.

Getting shoved into the tight, suffocating police car, cuffs digging into the skin of the wrists, reminds It of how tethered and caged It is by this goddamn body. But It quickly changes Its mind about what might yet be Its worst fate. Because as the car pulls away, It catches a glimpse, just a sliver of something next to Its car. Shrouded by the darkness of a field at the side of the road, but illuminated for a second by foul fluorescent headlights. The man, bloody and rabid, skin glistening, mouth foaming, teeth shining, eyes clouded over. _Red_.

* * *

 **I can't tell if this counts as a cliffhanger or not. Either way, the third chapter is in the works and will hopefully be up soon.**

 **Please favorite and follow if you liked it, and review regardless of whether you did or not. Thanks!**


	3. Into the Woods

**I'm back more than a month later this time and with less to show for it. Although, I think this chapter is pretty crazy even though it's shorter than the last one. I guess I'll just let you guys judge for yourselves. Thank you for all the support and for all of you who have stuck it out so far. I know this story is really unconventional and as a result, I didn't expect it to get much attention. That being said, I think it's probably some of my best work which is why I wanted to share it with those willing to read it.**

 **WARNING: this chapter contains mentions of suicide and actual suicide. Please be careful if you are easily triggered by themes related to this kind of content.**

* * *

 **Chapter Three: Into the Woods**

 _"Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name_

 _But what's puzzling you is the nature of my game"_

 _\- The Rolling Stones_

* * *

 _This can't be ethical._

The eyes try to pinpoint something unique on the wall, drill into the horrible greyness of the room to curb the boredom. Spots begin to appear in Its vision. It looks up at the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, hanging by a single thread and perfectly aligned with the center of the table to which the hands are handcuffed. It tugs against the chains, checking for what feels like the hundredth time whether or not It can break free. The heavy table shakes a little from Its attempt, but the steel stays solid. Above, the bulb swings rhythmically.

It tries really hard to see this whole thing as a learning experience; after all, It had not previously been aware of the fact that county jails commonly had creepy interrogation rooms. For all It knows, this may be a storage closet they shoved a table into to try and intimidate It. There's a significant absence of windows and mirrors and the door in the corner is conveniently painted grey so that it blends in with everything else.

 _They could seriously benefit from an interior decorator._

It's pretty sure that the absence of a clock is also deliberate. Time feels weird in this room, almost like it does in _The Corridor_. Like it's not actually real. It doesn't know if It's been here for two hours or two days and even though It's used to that feeling, not knowing the time is driving It a little crazy.

The door clicks and the eyes snap to the left to stare at the grey outline before swinging back to the wall in front. The sound of it swinging open is swallowed by the shouts It can hear coming from down the hallway. Footsteps, then the door closing, then more footsteps. Its gorgeous view is quickly obstructed by the short possessed man (AKA: Officer Megaphone).

"You know, people in the movies always get a phone call," It stares straight into the man's opalescent eyes.

He smirks sharkishly, teeth glinting in the low light, " _People_ being the keyword there, right?"

"That's a technicality. I'm in a human body, aren't I?"

"I think we both know that there's much more to being human."

And yet the body is such a connected thing. Such an innate part of being a human being, such a critical aspect of the human experience. It changes a person's lifespan, experiences, interactions, comfort levels, attitudes. To undermine the role of a person's body is to undermine _them_ , is to undermine a fundamental part of humanity.

 _A fundamental part that It's never had for Itself._

Maybe the man is right, but for the wrong reasons. It's lack of humanity isn't a result of failing to have a personality _beyond_ a human body, it's a result of not having a body to begin with. If It's never had a body of Its own, has It ever really been human?

"Why are you keeping me here?"

It suspects that they want to kill It. But if that's the case, why isn't It dead yet? They could have shot It when It got out of the car, pretended that It had a weapon, or was violent, or whatever else they claim when an innocent man is shot down.

"We just had to make sure that you wouldn't try to leave again."

It tenses, "Why?"

The man's smirk widens, insidious and unnatural, "We may not be after you but that doesn't mean something else isn't."

The knowledge that there's _two_ supernatural entities intervening in Its life is… rather underwhelming actually. It's experienced varying degrees of shock too much in the past twenty-four hours to find this new revelation particularly riveting.

 _If this guy wants a horrified reaction from It, he's gonna have to take a fucking number._

"So I'm in a cage."

The cop shrugs, leaning forward and tapping his fingers against the table. It wishes that It was free so that It could break them off. "Think of it more like destiny. This couldn't have happened any other way."

"Sounds an awful lot like a cage to me," It briefly wonders whether or not this man is aware of what's going on. If he even knows what It is or what's after It. Probably not given the milky eyes.

 _It has to give them points for creepiness cause that shit is straight out of a horror movie._

"By that definition, we're all trapped."

"Please don't go fatalistic on me," It scoffs, "we're both better than that."

"Fatalism is theoretical. I only speak the truth."

" _Jesus_ , this can't be happening," It mumbles. "Did I die and go to some sick hell where a possessed pig shouts philosophical jargon at me for all eternity?"

"No _Scorpius_ ," he chuckles like he just made a funny joke, "you haven't died. Your job on Earth has barely begun."

 _It's gonna slit the throat if this guy doesn't cut out the cryptic bullshit._

"What job?"

"You're a pawn in the game Mr. Malfoy," he says slowly, carefully, "we can't have one of our pawns running off to Europe, now can we?"

"What other pieces are on the board?"

He raises his eyebrows, "Now what would be the fun in telling you that?"

It groans, "So what? You're just going to hold me in here forever?"

"Certainly not. Just until you promise not to leave."

It grits the teeth, "And why would I do that?"

 _(~won't work~)_

"It won't work anyway," he echoes, " _and_ because everytime you try, they get closer. It's like setting off a sonar alarm that alerts anything that might be hunting you of your approximate location. It's not completely accurate, but it'll get stronger if you flee again."

"So basically… I'm screwed."

"In a word: yes. But the _amount_ of time left is entirely in your control. If you stay below the radar, blend into your life, maybe they won't find you as fast. I'd say that the stunt you pulled tonight cut your time in half."

Questions swim in Its mind like piranhas, snapping at each other and mixing together to create a best case, worst case, and everything in between. If It dies, will It end up back in _The Corridor_? Does the amount of time even matter if It's going to die either way? Will the thing hunting It do something that would be worse than death? The feeling of hopelessness and futility crashes into It, slams into some metaphorical body of the mind, bullies It into submission.

 _It should just kill Itself._

The thought is a shining beacon in a pool if inky darkness. It grows, expands, molds into a monster of its own. The idea isn't impressive or rather ingenious. In fact, it's wondrously simple, fantastically easy, brilliantly obvious. There are a hundred things piling up against It and It's the only one on Its side. So if It has no chance of survival, at least It'll die on Its own fucking terms.

"Okay, I promise."

"Wow, I didn't think you'd be this easy," he stares at Scorpius with mild interest, "I didn't realize we'd broken you poor suckers down so bad."

" _What_?"

The implications of what this man (or thing) just said are too much to bear. Too much for It to deal with right now. It doesn't even want to know the answer to the question that just slipped out of the mouth. It can't handle the answer. Not right now.

 _Maybe not ever._

"Don't worry about it."

It feels relief, "Do I get to go now?"

"Of course."

The man walks over to the door and opens it wide, allowing light to pour into the room, "Bring her in!"

It waits, confused and tired, staring at the blank rectangle of light in the corner of the room. It seems to grow smaller, grey enveloping it, as the footsteps grow closer. But reality sets back in when a familiar head of blonde hair pops into view. It's never been happier to see anyone in Its entire life. And that's saying something.

Alice is real and full and physical and tangible and _there_ as she all but runs to the table. Her arms circle the body and for once, It's glad to have the skin to skin contact reminding It that It's alive. Even the tears staining the t-shirt are a welcome sensation. It regrets that It can't hug her back because of the cuffs hugging the wrists almost as tightly as she's hugging It.

"Oh my God," she whispers, breath hitting the ear, "I thought you were _dead_. How the fuck could you do that to me? What were you fucking thinking?"

She pulls back, hands still framing the face, eyes reflecting a state of conflict. Sadness and joy welded together. Her gaze shifts to one of the bruises when her thumb grazes over it. It inhales sharply and she winces.

"Jesus, this guy really fucked you up bad. How did you even get out of there?"

"I did jiu-jitsu as a kid," the lie flows from the mouth smooth as butter.

She laughs and rolls her eyes, "You really didn't."

"How did you find me?"

Alice's expression contorts into one of irritation, "These idiots called Rose because she was the last person that tried to contact you. She called me and I hopped on the nearest bus up here. You stole our car by the way."

 _It stole a lot more than that, but she doesn't have to know that._

It shoots a look at the cops blocking the doorway, "They didn't give me my phone call."

"They didn't do a lot of things," Alice says darkly. "Do you want to press charges?"

" _No_ ," It says, "the last thing I want is to have anymore contact with the cops of Bozo County."

"Okay," she nods. She looks down at the hands, which are still pinned to the table, "Can you get these off of him?"

One of the cops approaches with a small silver key and uncuffs It. It rubs at the angry red circles pressed into the skin by unforgiving steel before standing up.

"We should go," It says, not taking the eyes off of the possessed man. He seems to have softened a little, his eyes slightly clearer, posture less aggressive. But It's not fooled. At any sign of trouble, the entity will come back full force.

So It leads the way to the door, eager to get out of the police station from hell. Unfortunately, Officer Megaphone blocks the threshold one last time, dangling freedom in front of Its face and then snatching it away.

"Remember your promise," he whispers.

It swallows loudly and nods the head, maneuvering around him and out the door. It doesn't even bother checking if Alice follows.

* * *

It's had a long ass day. All It wants is to recline the car seat, close the eyes, and maybe listen to some calming music.

"Okay, what the fuck was that?"

 _Of course._

"What do you mean?"

"I _mean_ ," she fumes, knuckles turning white against the steering wheel, "what possessed you with the need to drive to some random ass town in the middle of a work day only to get assaulted by a fucking stranger?"

 _It really hates how frequently Scorpius' friends use the word possessed._

"I didn't _plan_ to get assaulted by a stranger."

"Well then why the fuck were you there in the first place!?" her voice is hysterical, but her eyes remain cooly fixed on the dark road ahead.

"I don't know."

The car turns sharply to the side of the road, sending the body against the passenger door, " _What the fuck?!_ "

Alice violently twists the keys out of ignition and puts the car in the park. She takes an unsettlingly deep breath and then slowly turns towards It, eyes ablaze. Her voice is barely a whisper, "I swear to God, if you don't explain to me why I'm driving you home from _Bozo County_ at midnight _right now_ , I will leave you out here to die without a second thought."

"It's actually eleven thirty."

" _Scorpius!_ "

"Okay, okay, I get it," a pause while It decides what will sound most plausible. It settles on a half truth, "I've just been really overwhelmed in the last twenty-four hours. Mostly with work. Some of the cases have really been… getting to me."

Connor's picture flashes before Its eyes, and then his head hitting the freezer as his body crumples. But when the eyes focus in on Alice again, focus in on reality, It realizes that It's just as stressed out by _her_ as It was by Connor. Everything about this goddamn life just seems _designed_ to stress It out.

 _Everything about this life probably_ is _designed to stress It out._

Alice takes another deep breath and rests her forehead against the top of the steering wheel in the place between her hands. When she looks back up at It, the tension is drained from her body and all that remains in its place is exhaustion and fear. She looks older than she should. And wiser. The corners of her mouth remain tight and heavy as her eyes trace the planes of the face, trying to find a hole in a facade that is just one massive hole. One endless, bottomless, hopeless hole.

"Are you sure this isn't about us and…" she hesitates, looks down at her left hand, "what happened?"

For a moment, It considers breaking off the engagement. And then It remembers the consequences of doing that, the least of them being an awkward car ride back to the apartment. Besides, what's another night of having a fiance? It'll be dead by tomorrow anyway. Or at least Scorpius will be.

So It shales the head confidently and says, "No. I love you."

 _Sometimes It wonders when It got so good at lying._

Her lips remain pursed and she cocks her head a little, gaze unnervingly steady. There's no flash of relief in her eyes like there was last time, barely any indication that she even heard what It said. Time crawls as she looks right through It, combs through every part of It, picks out every characteristic, habit, motive, that isn't her fiance's.

With no warning or build up, she turns back to the front and starts up the car, "Okay."

The car pulls back onto the main road and for a few moments, there's nothing. Just the steady sound of the engine running and the tires gliding smoothly across the gravel below. The pure darkness rolls by as It stares out the window. It can do nothing but trust that the scenery is changing, but It feels relief from knowing that if something is out there—watching, waiting—at least It can't see what it is.

"You're not going to work tomorrow," Alice's voice crackles in the empty space and breaks into Its reverie.

 _Tomorrow It'll be back in_ The Corridor _. Or It'll be dead._

"Okay."

* * *

The next day

It sleeps in,

It makes breakfast,

It takes a shower,

It shaves,

It gets dressed,

It goes for a drive,

It steps in front of a car,

It gets hit.

The next day It dies.

* * *

The first breath _burns_. The first thing It sees _burns_ , lights and colors bouncing back and forth, blurring and blending images together. Then It starts to hear and that _burns_ too. The pain melts together and sets every nerve on fire, a feeling so alive yet so dead that It's not sure if It's gone to Heaven or Hell or some sick in between where this will never stop.

 _It doesn't want it to stop. The_ burning _feels good. sosososososogood._

 _(But something is wrong.)_

There's no hallway, no door, no endless sky. No corridor. Just this… whatever it is. This _burning_.

 _Is It dead? Where is It? Why does everything hurt? Why is everything so heavy? So weightless? So painful? So euphoric?_

 _(Can It go back?)_

" _Oh my god_."

The voice can't be above a whisper, but it rings out like gunshots in Its mind, ricocheting back and forth against the walls of what feels like a skull. The pain becomes unbearable.

 _Take It back! Take It back please! It can't live like this!_

The voice tunes back in, louder this time, ascending in a crescendo, "Fuck. _Fuck. Fuck._ _Fuck!_ "

It speaks before It's even aware that It can, moves before It's aware that any muscles are attached to Its mind.

"Could you please shut the fuck up? I just got hit by a car."

Shapes begin to form as It turns over onto Its back, head facing the sky. The cloudy, grey sky. It's overwhelming. Everything is quiet and It focuses on the breathing. In, out, in, out, in, out. It's beginning to regain a connection with the body when the voice speaks up again.

" _Shit, dude_. Are you _alive_?"

The world shifts again, changes and rearranges until It makes sense and It can see, hear, smell, feel and taste. It groans loudly in response, before trying to prop Itself up on the elbows. The motion is easy and smooth, maybe even better than before It got hit by the car. There's no pain, no struggle, no problem. Which makes no fucking sense. It just got hit by a car going seventy miles per hour. It—or at least Scorpius' body—should be destroyed. And yet here It is, lying in the middle of the road, staring up at a grey sky like It doesn't have a care in the world.

The eyes scan over the scene playing out in front of It. The highway It chose is still deserted, no cars for as far as the eye can see. There's a car parked off to the right, still running, which It finds kind of insulting. It would hope that It's death would be enough to get the guy to turn his fucking car off. But then It sees the actual person that hit It and figures that might be too much to ask. A pimply, douchey kid is standing a few paces to Its right, staring down at It.

It cracks the neck, to the right, to the left, and then sits up straight.

" _Whoa. How the fuck-_ "

"Seriously shut up. I have a massive headache."

"You stepped in front of _my car_."

"Yeah whatever," It says, stretching out the arms and legs, "did you call the cops kid?"

His eyes widen comically and he runs a hand through his greasy hair, "No. _Shit. No._ "

 _Idiot._

"Of course not," It chuckles sardonically. "Oh well, probably for the best."

Taking a deep breath, It pushes the body off the ground and onto the legs. They're a little wobbly, like they haven't been used in more than a decade, but otherwise solid. It's amazed at the absolute lack of consequences to the body. It should've probably been killed on impact, but It's almost certain that if It goes to a hospital to check for internal bleeding, they won't find anything.

It spares a glance at the kid and then starts walking down the road to where It left the car. Parking it down the road was mostly a way to avoid immediate identification by the person that hit It.

 _Although, It really doubts that the kid would've thought to check Its ID anyway._

"Wait! Where are you going?"

It doesn't look back, ready to never see the kid's face again, "Don't worry about it."

A beat, then more obnoxious yelling, "What am _I_ supposed to do?"

It sighs and turns around, getting a proper look at the guy for the first time, "You believe in God?"

The kid's eyebrows raise, "I don't know. What kind of question is that?"

"Well you do now. You've experienced a miracle. Accept it and move on."

He sucks in a sharp breath as It turns away from him, "What the fuck are you?"

It laughs.

* * *

The bug on the dash of the car crawls across slowly as It watches, deciding whether or not to kill it or leave it be. That's what It feels like right now. That bug. Crawling across the car dash that is life until something decides that it doesn't want It around anymore.

 _What the fuck is It going to do?_

It can't leave, It can't kill Itself, and honestly, It's run out of other ideas.

 _It'll be the first to admit that It's never been particularly creative…_

Anyways, It's pretty sure that there's nothing else It can do that wouldn't warrant some kind of divine intervention from the decidedly non-benevolent entity that's doing this to It. So It's stuck. Stuck in a life that It doesn't know how to live while something gets closer and closer to ending Its life forever.

The memory comes like an epiphany, obvious yet so very brilliant.

' _If you stay below the radar, blend into your life, maybe they won't find you as fast.'_

That's what the man said and now It has to take it to heart. It has to live Scorpius' life without becoming him. And It thinks It knows where It needs to start: tell someone what It really is. Surprisingly, It's refrained from doing that thus far in Its unnaturally long life. That's been fine by It; in fact, the thought of telling someone what It really is terrifies It. Not because It cares what others will think of It. It's lived long enough to realize that bullshit doesn't matter. It's afraid because telling someone else would put power into their hands. Power they could use against It.

But It doesn't have the time to figure out Scorpius' life on Its own. It needs to blend in as fast as possible and focus on figuring out what's after It instead of dealing with this stupid life. So the solution seems simple: It has to tell someone. Someone that was close to Scorpius, knows him well, but isn't too attached. That means Alice is already out of the running. She might do something crazy like blame It for her fiance's death. The only other people It knows are Dean Thomas and Rose Weasley. Thomas was Scorpius' boss and seems rather friendly towards him. Even if they were close, there's quite an age gap, so It doubts Thomas knows all that much about him.

That leaves one option: Rose… which sounds like a terrible idea. Rose is obnoxious and obsessive and forward and hostile. Ultimately, she's the person It wants to confide in least. And that's exactly why It needs to tell her. In this case, all her infuriating traits may be an advantage. She seems to know a lot about the guy if her questions about the hair gel and the coffee are anything to go by. She called Alice to let her know where It was, indicating that they're on speaking terms, maybe even friends. But she also hates Scorpius, which is a definite benefit when looking for someone who won't freak out when It tells them he's dead. She can help It while remaining disconnected. It's perfect.

 _And It hates the idea._

It's considering how long It can put off telling Rose when the phone buzzes.

' _I rescheduled with Al and Lily cya tonight.'_

So It needs to figure out who Al and Lily are by tonight. It lets the head fall onto the steering wheel in frustration, " _Fuck_."

Then It turns on the car and pulls away from the side of the road, heading towards the last place It wants to go: to see Rose.

* * *

The bullpen is deserted save for a few people It doesn't recognize doing work. There's no sign of the sergeant or the captain, which decreases Its anxiety by a third. That anxiety is further alleviated when It spots Rose at her desk, face half hidden by a stack of paperwork. She's writing furiously next to it, occasionally looking over at a page to read a few sentences over. There's a highlighter perched precariously behind her ear.

"Hey."

Rose startles, highlighter finally falling to the ground. She scowls and stoops to pick it up before staring It down angrily, "Why are you here?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" there are many reasons why It shouldn't be here, but It's found playing dumb quite useful in the past few days.

She rolls her eyes, "Need I remind you that you had a freak breakdown yesterday, left work two hours early, ignored everyone's calls, drove three hours to some random town, got assaulted by a stranger and ended up in prison? Alice told me you took a personal day."

"Which reminds me," It grimaces, "don't mention this to her."

Rose gives him a dark look, "There is no way you're asking me to lie to my best friend just to cover your ass."

 _Scorpius' fiance is best friends with his greatest enemy. Could this life get any worse?_

"I have to talk to you," It says ominously, "but first, where's the gear locker?"

" _What?_ "

"Where's the gear locker? I need to check on something."

"You don't know where the gear locker is?" Rose asks blankly. "Seriously, did something happen to you?"

It huffs, "I'll explain in a second. Please just tell me where the gear locker is."

She hesitates, but then nods slowly, "Down that hallway, one door past the locker rooms on your left. I'm guessing you'll need my key. Bring it back."

"Thanks," It grabs the keys from her and walks off in the direction of the gear locker. The room It finds is small, with a padlocked locker at the end that It walks over to immediately. The key clicks into place with ease and It turns it, the joined becoming unjoined. Swinging open grandly, the door reveals an array of dangerous weapons that makes the skin crawl in anticipation and wonder. A familiar excitement. A desire to destroy, to kill, to _feel_ wells up inside, a passing montage of blood and guts and roars of passion that lead the crowd, _the soldiers_ , into battle. A romanticism that lives in some places and dies in others. The temptation grows as It stares down the largest gun, immense power.

It grabs the first handgun It sees, checks the safety, and tucks It into the jacket. Then It closes the door and locks it carefully.

Rose is still crouched over her desk, nose buried in a book, when It returns, "Alright, we're going. I'll drive."

" _What?_ "

"We're going. I'll-"

"No dumbass, I heard what you said," she growls, "But I'm not going anywhere with you because you've lost your goddamn mind."

It runs a hand through the hair and sighs. It should've probably realized that this would happen and It's really not helping the situation by being all ominous and creepy.

"Look, I'm sorry. I know I've been acting weird, but it's because I found something and I don't know what to do about. I need your help. _Please_."

Her eyes change when It says please, softening by just a degree. She scans the face and eyes suspiciously, analysing every detail of Its facade with intense scrutiny.

Just when It thinks that she's going to refuse, she nods slowly and stands up, "Lead the way."

* * *

As soon as It spots the deserted parking lot, It steers off the road and down the makeshift path that leads to it. They're already far out of the city and the lot is somewhere between towns. A nature path bends out into the woods on the right. To the left, a desolate soccer field that's seen better days dominates a vacant field.

 _Perfect._

When It parks the car, they both sit there for a moment, quietly, motionlessly examining the surrounding area, but looking for entirely different things. It glances at Rose, the eyes focusing in on her hand, which is gripping the handle on the ceiling, knuckles white from the pressure.

"You're actually going to kill me, aren't you?"

Her voice shatters the silence, tension prevailing even though her joke was supposed to break it. Maybe It was the crack in her voice at the end. The one that exposed her genuine fear. Maybe she just wasn't convincing enough, couldn't prove to either of them that there's nothing to be worried about. It just wasn't enough.

It doesn't think she needs to be scared, but then again, It's never revealed Its true identity to a human before. Perhaps this _is_ something to be afraid of. Perhaps _It_ is something to be afraid of. It doesn't know.

It releases a bubbling laugh, because killing her is kind of the opposite of what It's about to do. "Nope. Come on, we're going on a hike."

"I'd rather stay here, thanks."

It grins at her and the tension in her body decreases minutely, "I'm not going to kill you. I have to show you something I found out there."

She stares at the path that It's pointing at, "Can you stop being so fucking cryptic?"

It shrugs, "You really just have to see it for yourself. I can't explain it."

"Why were you even out here?"

"I was on a walk."

"That's a lie," Rose scoffs. "I guess I'm not going to get any straight answers from you. Alright, let's go then."

In a flash, she's unbuckling her seat belt, pushing her car door open and slamming the door behind her. It watches her outside as she stretches, staring off into the woods with distrust. Taking a deep breath, It gets out too, closing the car and adjusting the gun nestled near the ribs. Then, It heads on the path, Rose close at Its heels.

The forest is fresh and suffocating at the same time, humidity drifting through the air like something It could actually touch. It takes random twists and turns, not really paying attention to Its surroundings or to where It's going or how It should get back. Something tells It that finding Its way back to the car is the least of Its problems. At some point, It swerves off the main path and steps over a root and then ducks under a low hanging branch. The crunch of leaves under Its boot is musical. Crisp and clear. It waits to hear the sound amplify as Rose steps off the path as well. But it remains the same.

Looking back, It takes Rose in, standing at the edge, staring past It with a look of scepticism on her face. It can't blame her. Her coworker that has seemingly gone batshit crazy in the past few days is leading her into a forest with no eye witnesses to vouch for what's about to happen. It wouldn't even follow It.

So why is she still here? She's clearly quite intelligent and level-headed and yet she's doing everything contrary to her natural instinct and for what? For some guy she supposedly hates? That's when the realization dawns on It. She must have really trusted him. She must have trusted him with her life. She may not have liked him, but she knew she could count on him. That's why she's still here. That's why she won't leave. Above all, she believes It because she believes _Scorpius_.

 _It can use that against her._

She's still staring at the line of gravel separating the path and the forest. The point of no return. The edge of a bottomless cliff. There she stands, contemplating the risk.

"Trust me."

Her eyes snap up, soaking It in, gauging the degree of truth, the degree of falsehood in Its voice. She takes a deep breath like she can't believe she's actually doing this. Then she nods, "I trust you."

The step that takes her off the path and into the woods feels momentous, the creation of history, one that will never be written down, in real time. What feels like a ripple travels through It and now It knows. Knows that, for better or worse, Rose Weasley's fate is inextricably connected to Its, her actions and thoughts woven into Its own, forming a spider web of possibilities. She doesn't deserve this, doesn't deserve It barging into her life and turning it on its head. But It needs her and if It needs her, It can hardly feel sorry about doing everything in Its power to get her help.

The walking is nearly aimless. They could be going around in circles for all It knows. It just wants to make sure that they're away from anyone that could see them. Isolated from society. It pretends to pay attention to the trees, landmarks that may catch a human's eye, but really, It's just waiting for a sign. And after some time, It finds one: a tree hollow, perfectly circular, dark and deep, calls out to It. Willing It to stop. The hollow reminds It of _The Corridor_ and It takes that as a good sign even though It's never really thought of _The Corridor_ as being _good_.

When It stops near the hole, Rose stops too, her hands on her hips, toe tapping against the decaying forest floor, eyes scanning the small clearing with hawk-like precision. They're surrounded by trees, Rose on one side, It standing on the other, a ring around them. Tying them together. The hand moves without permission, running along the rough bark of the holetree, feeling the bits break under the fingers, the soft palm.

"I don't see anything."

It turns away from the tree and trains the eyes on Rose, gaze locked on hers. Taking her in. Soaking her up. Hair wild and dancing in the cold wind. It smells like rain. Dark blue eyes crackling in the grey light. It smells like rain. Pale skin blending in, meshing with everything that will accept it. It smells like rain.

"That's because there's nothing to see."

Blue narrows, "I will skin you alive if you don't tell me what's-"

It laughs, "You can try, but it won't work."

 _(~won't work~)_

 _It smells like rain._

"You've gone insane," she whispers, eyes widening. She takes a step back, hits a tree, searches her pocket to pull out a cell phone, "I'm calling the cops."

This conversation is too much. This whole life is too much. It wishes that it would all just end. Would It really be so bad if the hunting thing finds It? Would it really be so bad to finally rest? It's been here for so long. So damn long. It just wants to sleep. Sleep forever and ever and ever. Sleep until It's no longer tired. Sleep for an eternity.

But no. She's dialling the number, It can hear it even though she seems miles away. Hears the sound of Its downfall as clearly as It can smell the rain. The death that rain unearths. The gun pokes at the ribs. With shaking hands, It pulls it out and silently points it at Rose.

 _It smells like rain._

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

When she looks up, her eyes zero in on the gun. Her body freezes and she stares down the barrel, phone forgotten in her clenched palm.

"I won't hesitate. Drop the phone."

It's killed people before. Rose isn't any different. She's just another human. There have been tons like her and there will be tons more. Rose isn't any different. It's watched others kill people more times than It can count. Mutilate their bodies, disembowel them. It never blinked an eye. A human is a human is a human. Rose isn't any different.

But that wasn't the plan. It's not here to kill Rose. It doesn't want to kill Rose. Not even if It has to. It doesn't want to. Doesn't. Won't. Can't.

 _Rose isn't any different._

 _(It smells like rain.)_

It can hear her breathing from where It stands, slow and steady, pulse thrumming just beneath, separated by no more than thin skin. _So alive_. The phone makes a soft thud when It hits the ground.

"Scorpius, I don't know what's going on, but I can help you," ( _yes, she can help_ ). "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out."

It wonders if she's trained for these kinds of situations. If they taught her how to handle those who seem unstable, those who point a gun wildly and never think twice about it. It knows that they did. Her voice is careful and controlled, genuine despite being detached. She's careful not to trigger It. Careful to say only what is innocent and right. None of that masks the stench. The stench of the blatant fact that she considers It a threat.

 _Is It a threat?_

"Scorpius is dead."

" _No_ ," she insists, "You're not dead. You're just sick, but I can help you with that. We can help you. All of us: Alice, Al, Lily. All of us."

She thinks It's talking about that bullshit humans say in movies. Where they pretend they've become a different person even though none of them are capable of change. None of them even know what real change is. Real change is having to live a different life every half a century. Change is being ripped from one body that's not yours to another body that's not yours. Change is visceral, painful. None of them know.

"Rose, the Scorpius Malfoy you knew is _actually_ dead. I'm not him. I'm an immortal being occupying his body. Just please, let me explain."

She doesn't flinch, eyes remaining on the gun, "This is a disorder. Dissociative identity. It's hard to get through, but if you put down the gun we can get help. Please, do it for Alice. For your parents."

"Rose, can you please look at me?" It says earnestly and she finally tears her gaze away from the gun. "I'm only keeping this gun on you because I don't want you to call the cops. I'm going to explain what's going on and I need you to be quiet through the whole thing. Will you please just let me explain?"

She hesitates, takes another deep breath, nods.

"Okay," It nods along with her, "I'm not Scorpius Malfoy. I don't think I'm even human if I'm being honest. It's a little confusing even for me. Basically, I've been alive since the dawn of humanity. I have a conscious mind, but not a body of my own. Instead, at the beginning of each life, I end up in this place. I call it _The Corridor_."

It pauses a moment to look at her reaction. She doesn't say anything, doesn't make a move. All It can do is continue.

"This place— _The Corridor_ —contains billions of doors, each one representing a human currently living on Earth. Within half an hour, I need to choose one of them or _they_ choose for me. Then I live the life I enter until I die and start the whole thing over again. I don't actually know what happens to the human whose body I occupy. I think they die, but I'm not sure. Anyway, I've never seen one come back. I don't know who controls this fucked up system, who chooses my lives when I run out of time. All I know is that this time, something is wrong. I can't get out of this life. I can't leave the state or die. I'm stuck. I need your help."

The silence that envelops the forest is deafening. It's an absence of voice, Its own and Rose's, but it's so much more than that. The whole world is holding its breath. The leaves stop rustling, the wind stops whipping, the birds stop chirping. Just It and Rose and the world. Waiting to see what comes next.

"Okay, I believe you. Just put down the gun."

Her voice doesn't waver, statement solid and believable. Firm and confident. There's not a shred of doubt to be heard in what she's just said. That's how It knows that she's lying. It can tell she's lying because none of what It says shatters her worldview, the tight bubble she's created for herself that allows her to make sense of the world. She's not freaking out or asking questions or doubting It in any way. Which means she doesn't believe It.

"You don't believe me."

Rose looks at It sadly, "Please put down the gun."

"Fine, have it your way," It shrugs, "I'll prove it to you."

The next moment, It's pulling the gun up and pressing the hard steel up against skin, up against the temple where it rests, cool and unfriendly and daunting. Part of It hopes that Its plan will backfire. That they'll just let It die right here right now, put It out of Its misery. Maybe they'll even send It back to _The Corridor_. Unlikely, but It can't help but hope.

The eyes stay wide open, so It watches Rose reach out her arm, mouth opening, legs moving slowly like she's running through molasses. But it's too thick, too much, too slow and she'll never make it in time. On some level, It's pretty sure she knows this. Will this be traumatic for her? Will this leave her with nightmares for years to come? Panting as she sits up in her bed, blown off face of a long gone detective partner dancing before her eyes?

" _No!_ " she yells, "Scorpius, don't-"

 _It smells like rain._

He pulls the trigger.


End file.
